


To Let You Shine

by Aglio_Saggezza



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alternate Universe - KHR fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassins & Hitmen, Character Death, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Gender Roles, Genderbending, Grief/Mourning, Groping, Ja'far has them all whipped, Ja'far is a fussy mother hen, King and Vassal, Loyalty, M/M, Making Out, Manipulative Sinbad, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Old Married Couple, One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Sinbad, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Sky!Sinbad and Storm!Ja'far, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but he could kill you with a plastic spork and don't you forget it, fem!ja'far, fem!sinbad, no matter his/her gender Sinbad will always be seme, of sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4438403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aglio_Saggezza/pseuds/Aglio_Saggezza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unrelated drabbles dedicated to the wonderful yet severely underrated character that is Ja'far, ex-assassin, General of Sindria and King Sinbad's unofficial babysitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SinJa, one-sided EnJa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a rare diplomatic visit to Sindria, Kouen becomes smitten with the sweet smile and gentle manners of his white-haired, freckled guide – and falls even harder when he discovers the man's hidden, but in no way capped, fangs.  
> (It's just too bad for Kouen that, while Sinbad definitely isn't the jealous type, there's one person in the world he won't ever be keen on sharing.)

When his workaholic of a younger brother had finally succeeded in nagging him into visiting Sindria on peaceful terms at least _once_ before issuing any declarations of war, Ren Kouen honestly hadn't been expecting much.

The island kingdom was just as beautiful as stories would have it, sure: open air markets bedecked with colorful silks and smelling of exotic spices, functional but lovely architecture and thriving greenery everywhere, and gorgeous weather that would have been too hot to bear, if not for the pleasant sea breeze that seemed to blow through every nook and cranny of the massive capital.

But all the same, Kouen had soon found himself missing the open, airy feel of the Kou Empire's palace, the quiet and the rigid adherence to courtly decorum that everyone, even most royals like himself, exhibited there; the handsome white stone buildings of Sindria's capital were all so close together as to be almost stacked on top of one another, and the city's people, while remarkably cheerful, were not nearly deferent enough for Kouen's taste. Frankly, the kingdom seemed to reflect its ruler – flashy, loud, and so overly friendly (at least in appearance) as to be disrespectful – far more than Kouen was comfortable with.

But there _was_ one little factor that, in the Kou prince's eyes, had made this trip all worth it: the guide he had been appointed with upon his arrival.

General Ja'far, Head Advisor to the King of Sindria and, if hearsay was to be believed, Sinbad's closest friend and most trusted confidant, was a breath of fresh air in the lively, bustling atmosphere of the small country.

He carried himself with a silent dignity, demurely covering his mouth with his wide sleeves whenever a smile curled his lips, keeping his head held high but his eyes deferentially lowered in Kouen's presence. He remained a few feet behind Kouen at all times, as was proper, despite being in the process of showing the foreign prince around the Sindrian palace, and walked with short, silent steps that made his government official's robes flow elegantly around his slight frame. Even his voice, somewhat husky but soft and unwaveringly polite, was a balm to Kouen's frayed nerves after their exploration of the crowded city below.

As Ja'far led him to what would be the final stop in their long tour, the throne room, Kouen couldn't help but slow down a few paces so that he might walk _beside_ the Advisor rather than before him – thus enabling him to sneak sly glances at his guide, for, while Ja'far wasn't exactly a paragon of the Kou empire's standards of beauty, Kouen found the green-clad man to be quite bewitching indeed.

Skin almost as fair as his hair, which was a white color that edged towards silver in darker lighting; a pretty, boyish face adorned with a sprinkling of freckles Kouen could only call charming; large, doe-like gray eyes that softened delightfully whenever the reserved man smiled politely at the Kou prince. Ja'far wasn't exactly small, but he was no giant, and even through his loose robes it was plain to see that the man was very slim – petit enough, in fact, that Kouen found himself picturing the way Ja'far's white head would fit just _perfectly_ in the crook of his shoulder if they were ever to curl up together in bed after a long, satisfying night of passionate—

"We have arrived, Your Highness," Ja'far declared as he halted before a tall, wide set of doors that were lavishly decorated with arabesque patterns painted with copper and gold, a faint shimmer over the wood signifying the presence of magical shielding despite the doors' seemingly flimsy appearance.

Kouen stepped forward, and Ja'far smoothly slid aside, bowing his head in the process and lowering his eyes demurely – completely unaware of the way he had effortlessly captivated his King's guest with this show of serpentine grace. The Sindrian general knocked once on the doors and, with a faint pulse from the wards as they recognized the touch of his magoi, the doors began to open, seemingly of their own accord.

The throne room within was rather grand, Kouen supposed, but nothing like his father's own back in Kou: maybe there was some truth to the rumors that Sinbad was the sort of King who affirmed his dominion over his people through his actions rather than his wealth. At any rate, the place certainly wasn't lacking in beauty, festooned as it was with ornaments in hues of amber, gold and royal purple that, Kouen realized as the King of Sindria left his throne and glided over to greet them, had been chosen with Sinbad's coloring in mind.

"Well met, Ren Kouen, first prince of the Kou Empire, and welcome to Sindria," the man in question said gravely as he offered Kouen a regal nod of his head – not as polite as a bow, but as a king to Kouen's prince, Sinbad was technically his better, so Kouen did not take offence. They spent a brief moment scrutinizing each other, assessing each other for visible weaknesses and maintaining their veneers of civility despite their frustration upon finding none.

"Ja'far," Sinbad began after a few long moments, and when his gaze left Kouen to land on the Head Advisor's upturned face, it softened visibly. "Thank you for taking the time to act as Prince Kouen's guide at my request; I know how busy your days are even without me weighing you down with yet more work."

Ja'far, apparently unperturbed by this almost scandalous show of familiarity between ruler and subject that Kouen couldn't help but frown at, beamed up at the Sindrian King, and there was something in that gentle expression that made Ja'far look somehow even more radiant than he had when smiling courteously at the foreign crown prince. Kouen's breath hitched upon seeing the loyalty and trust that shone from every inch of the Head Advisor's face, but Sinbad didn't even blink, as though this were a sight he was graced with every day – which, in fact, it most likely _was_ , and Kouen found himself swallowing back bitter envy with difficulty.

"I live to serve you, my King," Ja'far replied with the absolute, unshakable certainty of one announcing that the sky was blue and the grass was green. Then he bowed, his bejeweled brow almost touching the joined hands that were hidden beneath his sleeves as he bent forward, and went on: "You're right though, Lord Sin: I really must be going. All that paperwork isn't going to sign itself. Prince Kouen, it was my honor and pleasure to meet you."

And just like that, the General straightened and whirled on his feet, striding off towards to parts unknown without a backwards glance.

Kouen was struck with a sudden desire to call him back before he could slip away, perhaps slide a suggestive hand down the slight man's side and ask if he'd be interested in dropping by his guest chambers tonight after the feast in the honor of Kouen's arrival, but restrained himself. Propositioning the Head Advisor in front of Sindria's King would have been an exceedingly improper, not to mention foolish, move, and regardless, Kouen knew that it wasn't only _devotion_ he had seen in Ja'far's eyes when the man looked at Sinbad. Chances of any such offer ever being accepted at this point in time were so low as to be nonexistent.

Kouen was just about to force his mind back on track and begin what would no doubt be the first of many rounds of verbal jousting with the King of Sindria – and then the sound of glass shattering echoed through the room, followed by that of bare feet hitting the shiny marble floor.

"SINBAD!" thundered the intruder as he used one meaty hand to remove the shards of windowpane that clung to his clothing after he'd jumped through it, the other brandishing a wickedly curved scimitar towards a wide-eyed King. "YOU BASTARD, I'LL MAKE YOU PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME! HOW DARE YOU SEDUCE BOTH MY WIFE _AND_ MY DAUGHTER AWAY FROM OUR HOME? I'LL KILL YOU—"

_Thwack-thwack!_

Two triangular daggers, looking not unlike large metallic fangs, flashed past the heavyset man, pinning him through the wall by his clothing in the blink of an eye. The man's bellowing voice dwindled into a tiny, rather pathetic squeak when he realized that the blades that had bitten deeply into the stone surface were in fact mere millimeters away from having pierced through his throat, and that the fabric of his collar was now pulled so taut across said throat that his airways were restricted quite handily.

As one, two pairs of royal eyes slowly followed twin red wires from the daggers they were attached to, to the man these weapons had just been fired by – and, again, simultaneously, they found themselves gulping in a combination of apprehension and attraction.

Gone was the sweet, soft-spoken government official Kouen had come to… _appreciate_ so much since their introduction that very morning. Stood in his place was a small but intimidating hardened assassin, who was staring down at the intruder he had just incapacitated in mere seconds with an expression reminiscent of a slowly brewing storm – the kind that sank dozens of ships in one fell swoop and produced enough hail to ruin any crops its storm clouds happened to float over. His previously gentle eyes were now narrow and slanted, irises lightened to steel-grey reminiscent of the man's twin weapons and pupils looking almost like reptilian slits, making Ja'far appear irresistibly reminiscent of a viper about to strike.

(A shiver licked down Kouen's spine, and it wasn't one of fear.)

"If you don't give up and _shut up_ ," said the young advisor, slow and clear and so loaded with venom his words positively dripped with it, "the one who's going to get killed is _you_. Scum."

And then, as if a coin had been flipped, Ja'far smiled, and was a harmless paper-pusher again, one who was apparently satisfied that his terrifyingly delivered command – or perhaps lack of air – had caused the intruder to faint dead-away.

Before gravity could strangle the man regardless of Ja'far's decision to spare his miserable life, he retracted his knives from the wall with a simple tug of his arms. The blade-tipped wires tore sinuously through the air and wrapped themselves around the Sindrian Head Advisor's forearms in a manner that couldn't possibly be natural – and indeed, a crackle of blue electricity along one of the wires gave away the weapon's status as a household vessel.

Ja'far's eyes, soft and kind once more, slid over to Sinbad, and the freckled man _smiled_ at him, somehow exuding blood-lust and menace despite the expression looking entirely sweet in every possible way. "There, Sin. Problem solved; I'll send palace guards over to clean up the mess shortly. Maybe this incident will teach you _not_ to mess with married women in the future, _hmm_?"

The white-haired General turned to leave, halting only a moment in the throne room's doorway to speak a few last words: "No partying with Sharrkan and the others for a month." And then he was gone.

As Sinbad's dramatic wails of denial and pleads for a retracting of Ja'far's ultimatum rang through the entire palace, Kouen found himself mentally replaying the events of the past few minutes in quick snapshots of memory: Ja'far's seemingly delicate frame possessing the stillness of a predator right before he made his strike, Ja'far's eyes spitting fire and poison at the man, however powerless and incompetent, who had threatened his King, Ja'far issuing dire warnings in a voice like silk over razorblades.

And Kouen smiled, realizing that his earlier opinion of Ja'far had now changed irrevocably.

Kouen no longer wanted Ja'far to warm his bed: oh, no. Now, Kouen was determined to make him his Empress.

* * *

 

"Sin? What's this I hear about Prince Kouen suddenly finding himself taken ill with indigestion this morning?"

Resting his chin idly in his palm, the king of Sindria kept his eyes trained intently on his most loyal subordinate as the man bustled about the royal chambers, opening curtains, airing out the room and picking out Sinbad's clothes for the day ahead, as was their morn ritual. Sinbad was still sitting idle despite the relatively late hour, bare as the day he was born and tangled up in the sheets of his enormous bed, but Ja'far didn't even spare the sight of his king's nakedness a glance, far too used to it to be particularly bothered or enticed by it.

Sinbad didn't like that. He'd already been deprived of his friend and lover's presence for nearly all of yesterday, so he wasn't about to allow the younger man to ignore him _now_.

"I have no idea, Ja'far. Why, how could you possibly suspect me of being involved in an incident that could jeopardize future relations with Kou in such a way?" Sinbad replied, dramatically placing a hand over his heart as if it were paining him and looking at the ex-assassin with golden eyes full of emotional agony and betrayal.

Ja'far spared him a dry look as he efficiently folded a set of pure white robes with purple accents over the back of the chair that sat by Sin's well-stocked vanity (and to think people didn't believe him when he claimed that Sinbad was far more vain about his looks than he pretended to be).

Sinbad withstood the force of that familiar countenance, a mix of exasperation and fondness and a warning that if Sin didn't convince him not to in the next five seconds Ja'far would be soundly smacking him 'round the head until said noggin was knocked straight, before caving. "I don't like the way he looks at you."

The white-haired advisor rolled his eyes upward, a silent supplication to the heavens to save him from pouty, unreasonable kings, before trotting over to the bed and bending at the waist to press his lips to the pleasantly surprised king's.

"There's only one person whose eyes I enjoy having on me," Ja'far told him earnestly as he threaded his fingers through long, unbound purple locks, "and that person isn't Prince Kouen."

And Sinbad smiled, a gentle expression that made his aureate eyes fairly twinkle with the fondness he felt for the man before him. "Quite right, too."


	2. Assassin!Ja'far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exploration of Ja'far's more bloodthirsty nature.

If there is one art in the world at which the man who has taken on the name Ja'far would consider himself to be a prodigy, it wouldn't be something so trite as singing, painting, or dancing: rather, it would be the art of killing.

That said, it's not like Ja'far has ever  _enjoyed_  killing, precisely, though he doesn't hate it either; really, he's done it so often, both now that he could abstain from doing so if he wanted and back when it was officially his livelihood, that he's just indifferent to it at this point. But assassination is  _different_  from plain old murder, subtler and more… _tasteful_ , more of an art or a science than a simple lapse into animalistic instinct.

There's a certain satisfaction that comes with finding the target he's been assigned, devising a plan to take their life in the swiftest and most discreet manner possible, and executing said plan flawlessly – sometimes so much so that said target doesn't even have a chance to realize they're dead before their chest heaves with their last, gurgling breath.

It's not an unpleasant sight, blood splattering onto the nearest wall in a graceful arc as his knives slice neatly through his victim's carotid artery. Strangulation is messier, but has its own kind of thrill, what with the challenge of killing his target before they use his admittedly lacking physical strength against him or make enough noise to summon help. And then there are subtler kills, odorless, tasteless poisons slipped into wine or tea; it never fails to make a distant kind of warmth well up in Ja'far's chest, watching his victims choke and flail and die while he revels in the rare feeling of  _safety_  that comes with knowing that  _he_ , having long since gained immunity to such trifles, could never be harmed in such a way.

There were less pleasant aspects to his old job, of course: the torturous punishments he had to endure on the rare occasions that, his target being simply too much for him, he had to return to his masters empty-handed; the injuries he sometimes collected even when he  _did_  succeed…and, sometimes, a special kind of pain: being forced to stick around long enough to see his victims' loved ones discover the cooling corpse in question before he could make his getaway.

Watching those people's faces blanch and slacken with shock, their eyes overflowing with tears of horror as they screamed and wailed their agony to the heavens – no. That had always brought up memories that Ja'far would rather forget, and it had never,  _ever_  been fun. Ja'far was once a killer by profession, and to this day, still has difficulty allowing himself to form attachments to anything or anyone, that isn't exactly  _news_ , but he has never been  _heartless_ , either.

However, there  _are_  people whose pain, either physical or emotional, can't make even a single spark of sympathy sputter to life in Ja'far's shriveled black heart: people who have committed atrocities even worse than Ja'far's own, and don't regret them in the least, for example. But really, the people whom Ja'far always, unfailingly delights in killing are people who try to harm Sin.

To Ja'far, Sin is  ** _everything_** : his home, his heart, his reason for living, and even, unbeknownst to the man, his moral compass. If Sin were ever to die before him, Ja'far doesn't even need to wonder what he would do – he would torture whoever was responsible for it until they begged for death, and then slit his own throat without even granting them that. And he would  _enjoy_  it, too.

Sin doesn't like that, though. He likes to believe that Ja'far has grown from the foul-mouthed, dead-eyed brat of an assassin he used to be, that Ja'far has found something to care about besides Ja'far's own life and Sin himself. Ja'far is happy to go along with it most of the time, playing at being the fussy and uptight but ultimately harmless government official whose greatest concern in life is getting the ever-irresponsible King of Sindria to stop drinking and whoring for just  _five bloody minutes_ , sit down, and do his own  _goddamned_  work.

(That's not entirely an act, actually: if Sin had the balls to drag Ja'far away from his tough but refreshingly unpredictable life as an assassin, do his utmost to domesticate the ex-assassin, and virtually chain him to a desk, the  _least_  Sin could do would be to suffer alongside him…but Ja'far has long since learned that  _that_  is one battle he won't ever win.)

Still, there are moments when Ja'far will be presented with an opportunity to really cut loose – only for Sinbad to forbid him from taking any sort of action, each and every time, before Ja'far can even open his mouth to demand permission to do so.

Ja'far is a more than competent frontline fighter, arguably the most powerful of the Eight Generals, but – he can never repeat this enough – his specialty lies in  _assassination_. That brat of a magi, Judal, is more than capable of kicking his ass if Ja'far chooses to challenge him head-on and in broad daylight, but at night while the little wretch is sleeping, Ja'far could carve a new mouth into his pretty bejeweled throat and be out the door long before any of the Kou Empire palace's guards could even notice his entrance in the first place (and no, he isn't bitter about his recent loss against the magi at  _all_ , shut  _up_  Sin).

Sinbad won't let him, obviously – his King still has plans for the irritating, overgrown child – but it's not like Judal is the only piece of scum Ja'far could and really  _should_  be allowed to use as a scratching post to keep his skills sharp.

Even in a country as peaceful as Sindria, there are always traitors and spies hiding amongst the populace and Ja'far, having been both, himself, at more than one point in the earlier years of his life, knows how to spot them. But never, not  _once_ , has he ever been allowed to give them the swift, painful end they so obviously deserve for plotting against Ja'far's beloved country and its ruler, not even  _after_  he's made them sing like canaries and reported all his findings to Sin. Not  _once_.

It's…well, it's frustrating, Ja'far isn't going to lie. His body  _aches_  for action, both his mind and soul singing in remembrance of the days when he would go flipping and tumbling across rooftops under the moonlight, of the heart-pounding feeling of flirting with death as he got bolder and bolder in his methods when breaking into well-protected locations, of the joy and pride that came with completing his missions in record time and without a single witness, no matter how bloody the consequences to both his victims and himself…

Ja'far  _is_  the soft-spoken, patient, sharp-minded Advisor Sin needs him to be, but he is also the ruthless, cunning, prideful assassin Sin prefers to forget he once was, and that assassin has had  _enough_  of keeping his fangs capped. Gods know Ja'far loves Sin more than life itself, but if that damn man stays Ja'far's hand  _one more time_  when Ja'far is about to rid the earth of a piece of vermin it could really do without, Ja'far is going to remind Sinbad that it isn't because of his penchant for nagging that most everyone in Sindria is so terrified of becoming subject to Ja'far's wrath.

And so the next time a small cell of insurgents from Sasan is discovered hiding in the lower West district of the capital, when Sinbad tries to send someone else to do the  _uprooting_ , Ja'far steps in – and this time, he doesn't take no for an answer.

(Ja'far is undeniably Sin's, yes, he  _belongs_  to the King in every possible way, but he has his own mind still and it's time Sin remembered exactly how stubborn, how unyielding Ja'far can be against all opposition. He is Sin's friend, Advisor, confidant, comrade, and lover, but he is  _not_  Sin's trained pet.)

In the end, it only takes Sin one look at the way Ja'far divests himself of his heavy official's robes and keffiyeh in preparation for the workout he's going to be putting his body through, at the way Ja'far's eyes have narrowed into silvery, serpentine slits sharp enough to cut a man right down to his soul, for the King of Sindria to fold. And, while Sinbad looks more than a little mournful when Ja'far returns not an hour later, smelling strongly of blood and fear despite looking as unruffled as when he'd left…in the end, Sinbad doesn't protest or try to make Ja'far promise to leave such missions to someone else in the future.

Ja'far isn't the only one of the two of them who enjoys making his beloved happy, after all – and the freckled General never looks more at peace than when he is confident he has just eliminated another threat to Sinbad and Sindria's safety.


	3. Fem!Ja'far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost two full decades after Ja'far joined Sinbad's company, everyone finds out that he is actually a she. And of course, it's all Aladdin's fault, for the little magi's big-boob-detection radar is truly a fearsome thing.

None of them have ever even suspected.

She knows why. Her face is pretty, but without makeup and with her hair kept short, she's not eye-catchingly feminine enough that she can't pass for just a pretty  _man_. She's tall for a woman, but not unrealistically small for a supposed male, and her loose Sindrian official's robes take care of any further suspicions: with a bust like hers, even when bound there's still some bulge around the chest area, but the aforementioned robes are so shapeless that even some of the more muscular men in her administrative department sometimes look, from the right angle, as if they have breasts, so she blends in easily enough.

(She's just lucky that she was a late bloomer, and remained flat as a board until she was already in the habit of walking around in clothing under which she could easily hide a pair of unwieldy Reimish broadswords if the mood ever struck her.)

She's hidden her gender for nigh on fifteen years now, and none of her erstwhile companions have even  _once_  suspected that she might not be the man she presents herself as. Which is why it's somewhat galling that it takes an admittedly adorable little magi only minutes of being in her presence to notice exactly what she's hiding, and address the problem – right in front of Masrur and Sin.

* * *

They're on their way back to the hotel to start devising a plan of action before their intervention tonight when Aladdin drops the bomb.

It starts out easily enough. "Ne, ne, can I ask you a question?" the blue-haired little boy enquires, tugging on Ja'far's sleeve in such a way that she somehow feels her heartstrings being tugged simultaneously, and looking up at Ja'far with huge, inquisitive blue eyes that, ex-assassin or not, she doesn't have a hope in hell of refusing.

So she doesn't, and smiles gently back at him. "Of course you may, Aladdin."

By then Sinbad is looking over his shoulder at them curiously, and Ja'far knows full well that the two Fanalis could hear her and Aladdin's conversation crystal-clear even if every last person in the marketplace they're currently traversing was shrieking at the top of their respective lungs; but she doesn't think anything of it, not just yet, not until—

"I was wondering since earlier, but…Ja'far-oneesan, why are you pretending to be a man?"

There is a long, long silence, Ja'far standing frozen and staring down at the patiently waiting magi with a look of stunned horror…and then Sinbad bursts out laughing.

"Ja…Ja'far…" the oh-so-dignified king of Sindria manages to choke out between huge, heaving guffaws, bent double and holding his aching stomach as he gasps for air. Ja'far wants to make him ache even harder – perhaps a foot to the gut would do it. "A woman…pretending to…oh, this is too good…"

Ja'far feels her face burning, with either anger or embarrassment, she's not sure which. Even though  _she's_  the one who's been actively trying to pass herself off as a man since she was a small child, it kind of hurts to hear Sinbad dismiss her feminity so easily; on the other hand, she's mostly just pissed that the egocentric bastard thinks he can laugh at her all he wants and she won't retaliate, so she does exactly that. A heartbeat later, Sin is holding his middle for a whole different reason, and Ja'far definitely  _sees_  the amused little smirk that crosses Masrur's face for just a moment as red eyes stare down at the pathetically groaning King.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Aladdin," Ja'far says with as much dignity as she can muster, which isn't much when a small ring of curious bystanders have gathered to see what exactly is so worth laughing and/or crying out in pain about, and she feels far too exposed under the combined weight of their meddlesome gazes. "Now, shall we get back to the hotel—"

"Ja'far-san doesn't smell like a man," Morgiana interjects, looking so stoically adorable that Ja'far _can't_ get angry at her for both for both interrupting her and foiling her attempt at deflection. "But he doesn't smell like a woman, either. Ja'far-san has no scent. Are you sure he is a woman, Aladdin?"

The little magi nods decisively, raising his wooden staff, and Ja'far suddenly feels a chill down her spine, making her palm her household vessel instinctively. "Un! I'm certain. Her rukh are definitely those of a woman. Here, I'll show you!"

Oh shit. "Aladdin,  _no_ —"

She's too late. The high collar of her shirt – high enough to disguise her lack of an Adam's apple – pops open, said shirt unbuttoning itself down to her navel; her robes slip off her shoulders, pooling around the obi at her waist; and lastly, the bindings around her chest unravel spontaneously, floating off her body like a very long, very flat white snake to rest on the dirty ground at her feet. And so it is that her breasts, now free of their confinement, bounce in cheerful greeting to all the bystanders currently gaping dumbfoundedly at her chest.

More importantly,  _Sin_  is gaping dumbfoundedly at her chest, and even Masrur looks like he's just been slapped in the face with a fish.

"Bigger than Yamuraiha's," the male Fanalis declares gravely, and Ja'far gamely refrains from smacking him: she'll only break most of the bones in her hand if she tries. Sinbad's slow, astonished nod only makes her thirst for violence stronger.

She'll tan their backsides for this later. Right now, though, it seems she's got some explaining to do.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they're all back at the hotel, seated together in the lounge of the three Sindrian diplomats' suite.

Ja'far has long since given up on trying to hold her shirt closed over her torso: Aladdin's spell, whatever it was, is still holding it open, so the flaps of fabric just slip from her grasp every time she tries. Besides, her misbegotten youth killed any sense of modesty she might've had a long time ago, and they've all  _seen_  it now anyway, so there's really no point in trying to hide anymore.

Sin, seated on the sofa opposite her along with Masrur and Morgiana – who have both gone back to appearing blank-faced and aloof – has that serious, intent look he always gets right before a engaging in a particularly challenging battle, only he's gazing directly at her breasts right now. Aladdin is seated beside Ja'far, staring at the ample amount of cleavage before him with an expression she can't quite parse out. The silence is so thick and heavy that even the two Fanalis seem to be having trouble holding up under it.

Eventually, it's Aladdin who breaks the stalemate: not in a way she had expected, and not in away she particularly appreciates, either.

"Ja'far-oneesan~" the little magi practically coos before he launches himself into her lap, burying his face into her cleavage and happily nuzzling her white skin. His small hands slither up to grab one breast each, massaging and squeezing through the open shirt like they're his new favorite stressballs, and his face is adorned with a look of utter bliss, mouth open in a wide, loose smile and slightly drooling, eyes dazed, cheeks flushed.

Ja'far lets out a shocked little gasp, blushing brightly herself, and she instinctively makes a move to rip him away, but restrains herself in the end. Aladdin is just a young child, after all, his intentions can't possibly be perverted: he probably simply misses his mother, wherever the woman may be, and is taking comfort in Ja'far's own bosom. She can't fault him for that.

Still, it is highly uncomfortable to just sit here and let herself be groped under Sin's astounded – and, unless she's much mistaken,  _envious_  – gaze, and Masrur and Morgiana's mildly curious ones.

"So…" Sinbad says at last after several long moments, his chin now resting in his linked hands in such a way that the set of his mouth is hidden, "Ja'far, you…really  _are_  a woman."

Reluctantly meeting her king's eyes with a forcibly impassive gaze of her own, she nods once, clearly, decisively. The gravity of the moment is somewhat ruined by the way Aladdin is still gleefully snuggling into her bust, but there it is. It's out in the open now.

"You've…been a woman. All this time."

Ja'far shoots Sinbad a deadpan look, and he has the decency to look a tad sheepish. What, did he think that infuriating brat Judal turned Ja'far into a woman at some point in a fit of pique or something?

(Well, actually, that  _is_  something Judal would be perfectly happy to do, were he able to do so.  _Is_  there a spell for changing a person's gender? Ja'far doesn't think so, but then again she didn't know until not half-an-hour ago that spells for stripping women's upper bodies existed, so for all she knows, there  _could_  be one out there.)

"Right," Sin mumbles to himself, shifting on the sofa, crossing his arms and then his legs – a sure sign of how uneasy he's feeling with this whole situation. "So…why didn't you ever tell me?"

It seems her grace period of blessed silence is about to come to an end: that definitely isn't a yes or no question. Ja'far  _really_  just wants to set this whole issue aside so they can get to planning their first move against the Fog Troupe already. "I've been disguising my gender since I first started working for Sham Lash. Less chance of any of my former  _comrades_  developing an interest in me: some of them were…unscrupulous, in their choice of partners, no matter their age. Vittel knew. When I joined your merry band of idiots…

"It was just easier. You flirt with anything living and big-breasted, and I wanted to be your advisor, not your eye-candy. By the time Yamuraiha joined us, I knew that you were capable of respecting women as friends and equals rather than playthings, but by then I'd been pretending to be a male for so long that I just…kept going. Simpler that way."

"Now that I think about it, I don't think I've ever seen you completely unclothed. Not once," Sinbad muses distantly, Masrur nodding beside him as they both remember all the times Ja'far bowed out of sharing communal baths with the rest of the menfolk in their nine-strong group – they all just assumed 'he' was shy about 'his' scars and decided not to push. "So, you were planning on taking this secret to the grave?"

"I didn't think it was that important," Ja'far says feebly, and isn't surprised when a spark of fury sets Sin's golden eyes ablaze.

"Not important?!" the king of Sindria exclaims as he gets to his feet and plucks Aladdin off her chest by the back of his little blue vest, depositing the disappointed child onto Masrur's lap none-too-gently. "Ja'far, you've been lying to me – by omission, but still lying – since the first time I met you. Not counting the fact that you apparently thought of me as a sexist pig for  _years_ —" Ja'far gamely refrains from pointing out that he'd been acting pretty much  _exactly_  that way towards Morgiana not an hour ago, though thankfully without any perverted advances or the ex-assassin would've trussed him up like a pig for it. "—you obviously didn't feel ready to trust me with this, so how can I trust  _you_  with anything at all? Is there anything  _else_  you're hiding from me?"

That… _that_  hits right where it hurts. Sin's friendship, his trust in her loyalty and her abilities as his head advisor, are the things she values most in the world, and to hear him cast both into doubt is like a knife to her heart. So it's only because she's off-balance, panicking, and desperate that she misses the sly little glimmer in her King's eyes, and doesn't even think twice about her following words before she speaks them.

"It's not like that, Sin! I swear, I never meant to…I  _do_  trust you, it's just—! …Is there anything,  _anything_  I can do to make up for this? I promise I didn't…"

Sinbad considers her solemnly for a few long moments, unsmiling, unblinking (surely that little upward twitch at the corner of his mouth is just her imagination). Ja'far straightens up on the couch, her spine going ramrod-straight as she folds her hands into her lap and tries to ignore the fact that her cleavage is still entirely on display.

"There is." Sinbad pauses dramatically, then steps forward to grasp one of her trembling hands with both of his; she clutches back automatically, with a humiliating degree of desperation.

"Ja'far…to earn my forgiveness, you must  **become my Queen**."

Ja'far blinks. Masrur's eyes widen near-imperceptibly. Morgiana's mouth drops open a little, and Aladdin's gaze actually unglues itself from Ja'far's breasts for a second in sheer surprise.

And not a moment later, a cry arises from Balbadd's largest hotel, a chorus of astonished screams that has any and all birds previously perched on said hotel's roof hurriedly winging away from the cacophony.

"EEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHH?!"

* * *

And so it is that, after a long evening full of strident denials and lectures on Ja'far's end and would-be charming attempts at defusing his Advisor's temper on Sinbad's, Morgiana comes out with the following comment at the breakfast table, the next morning:

"Ja'far-san smells strongly like Sinbad-san now," the Fanalis girl says bluntly, innocently, and watches with mild confusion as the Sindrian official reflexively spits a mouthful of hot tea right into the curiously smug face of the man in question.

"WHEN ARE YOU ALL GOING TO BUTT OUT OF MY BUSINESS SO WE CAN FOCUS ON THE FOG TROUPE ALREADY?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's up to you readers to decide whether Sinbad was always in love with Ja'far but held himself back because he couldn't fathom starting a relationship with a man, or if he's only using her now because he'd rather be tied down to his subordinate, whom he knows won't force him to give up on his degenerate lifestyle, rather than some foreign princess... Either way, poor Sin comes out sounding rather despicable. Sorry, Sinbad, even in canon you aren't usually this much of a dick…
> 
> Also, if you're wondering why Judal never noticed when Aladdin so easily did, well…that's an undeniable plot hole right there, isn't it. Oh well. Let's just say that Judal did know, but thought it was absolutely hysterical that no-one but him had ever noticed, and that it would be funnier to let the charade continue than to just tell Sinbad outright. Or something.


	4. Sinbad survives Ja'far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ja'far dies; Sinbad copes. Or, as the case may be, doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (As for why Ja'far died, well, Sindria and Kou went to all-out war for reasons that shall forever remain unexplained, and Ja'far met his end on the battlefield, where Sinbad and his fellow Generals discovered him several hours after the fighting died down.)

Ja'far looks beautiful, even in death; perhaps  _especially_  so, in fact. After all, even after his reformation at Sinbad's hands, death had been something the ex-assassin thrived in above all else.

He is flat on his back, slender limbs splayed out in unnatural positions, bringing to mind images of a fragile doll carelessly dropped to the ground by its spoiled young owner. His official's robes are shredded to almost nothing, revealing both the multiple scars that mar his fair skin –  _even paler now_  – and the newer, fresher wounds that have joined them. Most of his hair is dyed red by the pool of blood he is lying in –  _his own_  – and his hands, though the left one is missing three of its fingers, are still clutching onto his precious household vessel, even though the rest of his body has already fallen slack with lack of life.

At least Ja'far's face isn't twisted in agony: if anything, he just looks  _angry_ , his slightly parted lips still holding a shadow of the sneer that would twist them whenever his more bloodthirsty personality came out. His eyes, though, aren't sharp and snake-like and dark with the promise of eternal rest: if anything, they're blank. Empty.  _Dead_.

Sinbad's eyes, as he stares down at the broken and bloody corpse of his best friend and most loyal subordinate, are somehow even emptier.

* * *

It pains them all, watching Sinbad try so hard to act normal as the next few months fly by.

All the remaining Generals are run off their feet trying to keep Sindria afloat, helping in the rebuilding efforts, sorting out the much-reduced budget for the following year, trying to keep relations with Kou from souring enough to spark another war (Ja'far had died taking his killer with him: Ren Kouha, third prince of the Kou Empire, a metal vessel user to Ja'far's household vessel – and of course Ja'far had been too stubborn to do anything but  _win_ ).

Sinbad would've normally been right there with them, as, despite the flighty persona he usually likes to keep up, there is very little in the world that could keep him from his duties as King whenever Sindria is in peril. But this time…this time, he's investing all of his energy into drinking and fucking and dreaming and  _pretending_.

Sinbad spends all his afternoons at one pleasure house or another now, letting beautiful women coo and crawl all over him as he chugs down enough booze to bring down a Maurenian saber tooth tiger. And for once, he _isn't_ interrupted, he's _allowed_ to keep going and get drunker and drunker and grabbier and grabbier as the hours float by, because  _no-one is coming to fetch him_.

There's no uptight advisor to barge into the sleazy establishment and drag the whining king out by the ear, nagging him the whole while about neglecting his duties and upholding his image as a respectable king, looking distinctly scandalized even though his voice holds an unmistakable note of fondness that his annoyance can't quite mask. There's no Ja'far to drag Sinbad back down to earth and berate him into being the best he can be. There is simply  _no Ja'far_ , not anymore.

Not anymore.

(By the time a concerned Yamuraiha and a despondent Sharrkan come by to retrieve their inebriated King, he isn't boisterously laughing and entertaining his scantily clad audience with tales of his great deeds. Instead, his face buried in the shoulder of one very bewildered and uncomfortable courtesan, Sinbad is crying.)

* * *

It's been three years now since that fateful day, and Sinbad has changed.

The formerly lively, good-natured man with a taste for love and adventure and  _life_  is gone, probably forever. In his place stands a stern, serious man whose face is creased with such deep stress lines that he looks a decade older than he should.

Sinbad seldom laughs, these days. He looks more at peace than he ever does when he's surrounded by all of his Eight—…his  _Seven_  Generals, but he still doesn't smile or drink or lapse into ribald singing with them anymore; and sometimes he'll say something particularly outrageous, and instinctively duck his head to avoid Ja'far's swatting hand – only to flinch a second later when neither mild hit nor exasperated reprimand follows his facetiousness, his face contorting in the kind of soul-deep, twisting,  _ripping_  pain that just can't be healed.

(As a result, the long-time comrades have long since come to an agreement to _avoid_ such get-togethers.)

Sinbad is still handsome, still charismatic, still the great king he's always had the potential to be: just picturing the expression of disappointment that would've painted Ja'far's countenance had Sinbad allowed himself to become a bitter tyrant was enough to keep him from straying from the right path. But all of his happiness, all of the joy he used to find in living, is long gone.

The sky isn't any less blue for Ja'far being dead, the grass isn't any less green, the birdsong any less pleasant. But Ja'far had been by his side for more than half his life, his best friend, his most trusted confidant, his most beloved and most important person in this entire ever-rotting world, and now Sinbad will never see him again.

It's worse than losing a limb, than losing  _all_  of his limbs. Every nook and cranny of Sindria's palace reminds him of some small moment he'd spent with Ja'far – here the corridor Ja'far always briskly marched through on his way to White Aries Tower every morning, here the little stone bench he and Ja'far liked to sit and have lunch on during quiet, sunny days, here the secluded courtyard he would spar with Ja'far in twice a week to keep their respective skills from rusting, here the little alcove, near the throne room, that Sinbad would pull Ja'far into for a private moment whenever they happened to cross paths.

Ja'far is gone. Never will he bicker with Sinbad about the king's drinking habits again. Never will he offer the king his unique brand of quiet, steady, unspoken support again. Never will he fight by Sinbad's side again. Never will he tangle his fingers in Sinbad's long hair and draw him in for a kiss again.

Sinbad doesn't know what to do in a world that doesn't have Ja'far. He just doesn't understand how he's supposed to exist without Ja'far.

So he puts all of his energy into the betterment of Sindria these days, working tirelessly to ensure its political, economic and even social superiority over every other nation on the planet and ignoring his subordinates' timorous, half-hearted attempts to get him to _stop_ and _rest_ for a little while. Because  _they aren't Ja'far_ , Ja'far would've just knocked him out with Bararaq Sei and dragged him off to bed before waking him up with a mouth on his cock the next morning as an apology, but Ja'far's _dead_ whereas everyone else isn't and it isn't fair Sinbad wants him back Ja'far _Ja'far_ **Ja'far**.

Unsurprisingly, Sinbad eventually collapses: that's what pulling four all-nighters in a row while ingesting nothing more nutritious than water will do to one's body. And, as Sinbad sleeps like the dead in his oversized royal bed –  _so much larger, so much emptier now that Ja'far doesn't join him there every other day_  – while his Seven Generals hover worriedly over him, he dreams.

In his dream, Ja'far is back with him, going about life in Sindria as usual by Sinbad's side. Only, when Ja'far starts on him about his flightiness, Sinbad doesn't pout or sigh tiredly or try desperately to escape the oncoming, hours-long lecture Ja'far is just revving himself up for. Instead, he reaches out like a drowning man towards the shore and gathers his advisor's body to his in a crushing embrace. Everything – Ja'far's warmth, the sharp, almost bony contours of Ja'far's slight frame, Ja'far's lack of a scent, the way Ja'far's fingers knot into the back of Sinbad's robes in return – is so painfully, wonderfully  _familiar_  that tears start pouring down Sinbad's face before he can hold them back, his body shuddering and spasming from the force of his huge, heaving sobs.

He hasn't cried this hard since he was a small child whose father had just been taken away from him forever, but he isn't embarrassed to expose his vulnerability in such a way: Ja'far has seen him at his worst and at his best, and sure enough, it's but a moment before the ex-assassin draws Sinbad's head down to rest on his comparatively frail shoulder, carding his hand soothingly through Sinbad's hair as the king gasps out apologies for failing to save him and pleas never to leave him again.

"I can't, Sin," Ja'far replies sadly, and somehow Sinbad isn't even that disappointed to hear his refusal when it's been  _so long_  since he last heard that beloved voice call his name. "I don't belong here anymore. But you,  _you_  still do. I only want you to join me once you're old and gray, you got that? Settle down, give me all the little purple-haired bratlings you know I would've loved to dote on, and eventually we'll see each other again; and this time, I'll never leave your side.

"Stop worrying the others and start living again, Sin. Solomon knows I love you more than anyone in the world, but if you keep acting the part of the depressed martyr when so many people need you to rise above that, I'll greet you in the afterlife with a knee to the gut instead of a kiss; remember that."

Sinbad has heard such words many times since Ja'far's death –  _Ja'far wouldn't want to see you like this, please try to be happy again, at least_ try – but this is the first time he's actually believed that he might be able to heed them. He manages to choke out a watery laugh, and he when he wakes up mere seconds later he could swear he sees a few glimmers of golden light dissolving from the circle of his previously sleeping, upturned arms.

And when, a few moments later, he greets his Generals with a smile he hasn't worn in years and sees answering broad, relieved grins light up their faces, he decides that just maybe, he could do as Ja'far bade him for once, instead of forcing his poor advisor to repeatedly knock him over the head with frazzled demands before he finally gives in.

Sinbad will _try_ to finally acquiesce to one of Ja'far's requests without being difficult. And the whole world knows by now that when High King Sinbad of the Seven Seas sets his mind to something, chances that he'll fail are extremely slim.

* * *

Decades later, the mind and heart of a great King join those of his advisor in the Home of Souls. And indeed, they are never separated again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to make this angsty, I really did, but somehow this happy ending snuck up on me because I am physically incapable of writing sad ones.  
> Still, I wanted to write a SinJa death fic, and in the end I did, so there's that. Whatever it is I actually end up writing is usually completely unlike what I plan for whenever I start on a new story anyway…though I'm sure I'm not the only one.
> 
> By the way, for anyone who may have forgotten this detail, "the Home of Souls" is another name for the Rukh, or at least that was how Baba-sama from the Kouga clan described it to Aladdin near the very beginning of the series.


	5. Fem!Sinbad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sinbad is the High Queen of the Seven Seas, and Ja'far, for the sake of both love and practicality, is a bit more than just her chief parliamentary officer.

In all her life, Sinbad has not once met a man who was able to bring himself to fight her seriously.

She'd be a formidable opponent for just about anyone, regardless of the amount of experience they have on her: she knows it, and within just a few seconds of starting to battle her, her adversaries know it too. With her agility, her physical strength that's uncommon in a female, her ability to read her enemy's movements and now her status as probably the world's only Dungeon conqueror and metal vessel user, she can't think of anyone who could defeat her if she were to really put her back into it. Only, any and all men who _might_ have served as worthy opponents are too impeded by their silly morals to fight her more than half-heartedly.

Hell, even in their very brief and one-sided clash, Princess Serendine of Parthevia had given Sinbad more trouble than she could recall having in, well,  _ever_ , simply because the princess was also a woman and as such hadn't had any qualms about  _really_  giving Sinbad what for!

It's pathetic, it really is. Men look at Sinbad, and all they see is shiny hair and big alluring eyes and an hourglass figure that, in her opinion, looks very nearly ridiculous on her still short, scrawny barely-teenage body – and suddenly all killing intent leaves them. Even when she wins, inevitably, against them, they don't really see it as _her victory,_ since they never fought her seriously in the first place: because  _she's only a girl after all._  It's so  _infuriating,_  because she  _would_  have beaten them even if they'd gone all-out, but they never will so they'll never believe it.

(Even Drakon was like that until they found themselves before Baal and were told to fight it out for the right to be King. Then, he finally gave it his all, and she  _still_  kicked his ass, and since then he's never looked at her with anything less than respect, for her and for her abilities as a combatant – and a smidge of friendship that he's too tsundere to ever admit to at the moment, but she'll wear him down someday, she knows she will.)

The thing is, Sinbad loves to fight. She hates war, of course, but a sparring match – or even the occasional death match, come to think of it – always gets her blood pumping, adrenaline singing through her veins and making her feel more  _alive_  than ever as she and her adversary fall into a violent dance, the ever-present risk of injury making her high taste all the sweeter.

But there are far too few men in the world who can loosen their death-grip on their male pride long enough to admit that a woman might make for a worthy opponent, and the worst thing is that most women  _also_  believe that, so who is Sinbad left to fight with? No-one.

Until she meets  _him_.

Perhaps it's a bit unhealthy to get so attached to her would-be assassin simply because he came at her with intent to kill. Scratch that, it's  _definitely_  unhealthy. But the kid is so  _adorable_ , she can tell even with those ragged bandages hiding most of his cute little face from view, and he's so snarly and grumpy and _prickly_ that she's pretty sure she'll get her hand bitten off if she tries to ruffle his pretty white hair like she's wanted to since she first laid eyes on him. He would've  _succeeded_  in slitting her throat if she hadn't happened to wake up at precisely the right moment, and for some reason, that makes her want to keep him by her side more than anything.

The kid can't be more than ten years old: at that age, you don't give a damn whether your playmates or playground enemies have something dangling between their legs or not, or at least  _she_ had certainly never cared. Not to mention that, to the kid, who's been trained as an assassin (someone who  _ends people's lives_  for a living, regardless of said people's gender) since he was six years old, it wouldn't matter if she were a man or a woman or neither or both – he's been tasked to kill her, and so he will.

And because she fought back, and made him fail in his assignment at least once, he's now wary of her strength, but he's still not giving up on killing her – because he was ordered to, and now she's even made it personal. If she gives him half a chance to strike out at her, he'll happily take it.

Sinbad, twistedly, really  _really_  likes that. She's going to make him hers.

* * *

The instant Ja'far is old enough for it, Sinbad makes her move.

He's getting to that age when he'll start noticing women's bodies, after all, and she wants to nip that in the bud before he gets the silly idea that Sinbad might _ever_ be willing to share him with anyone else. So one fine evening, one of those extremely rare ones when she refrains from partaking in drunken revelry and Ja'far consequently wears a small, grateful smile throughout it all, she waits for him to truly drop his guard after they return to their shared room, and then she pounces.

Both through working as a sailor as a child and then fighting alongside a rope dart wielder for years, Sinbad learned a thing or two about tying knots that even Ja'far would have trouble getting out of; and for a split-second after he realizes that he's trussed up and at her mercy with his arms above his head and his belly exposed for all to kick or stab, he looks up at her with betrayal in his eyes, and that _hurts_ like nothing else. But then she starts none-too-gently tugging his clothes off, and the expression of realization, swiftly followed by mortification, that replaces the dismay, is endearing enough to make Sinbad smile like the perverted bastard they both know she is.

He looks adorable spread out on her bed like this, bare as the day he was born when he's only recently realized that this is a state society thinks one should be ashamed of being found in. He's  _blushing_ , the dear, color high in his cheeks and spreading down his surprisingly well-built chest, and he's staring up at her with the huge, lost green eyes she hasn't seen since the day he decided to follow her. Against the dark silk sheets of the expensive hotel, his paper-white skin and silvery hair stand out for once instead of blending into the background, and his cock is flushed and stiff and eager already like that of a proper little teenager, and god he's so  _tiny_  and  _cute_  that she can't help herself.

(Ja'far is a petit creature while she's tall for a woman, so even though he's finally hit puberty properly, when they stand side-by-side, he's only about eyelevel with her chest – which has reached truly obscene proportions in recent years – as of yet, but he always looks her right in the eye nonetheless and she loves him for it.)

Soon she's straddling him, pinning him to the bed, and when she gazes down at his unspeakably cute, somewhat teary-eyed expression and feels the wolfish grin that adorns her own face, she thinks of what an odd tableau they would make in the eyes of almost anyone else – a woman, taller than her man, dominating him like it's her Solomon-given right, and said man happily  _letting her_  because that's the way it's always been between them. She leads, and Ja'far follows, sometimes knocking her back onto the right path when she's on the verge of straying, because he respects her but he's not  _afraid_  of her and never has been, and gods just that single thought makes her wetter than she's ever been before.

If his eyes had been wide when she first started undressing him, they look like they're about to pop right out of his skull when she starts disrobing as well. They've both seen each other naked more times than they can count, as they used to bathe together until Ja'far decided it was "too inappropriate for a future Queen and her right-hand man" – Sinbad took that to mean "I've only just realized what a hard-on is and you're really rather attractive and I'd rather just avoid any awkward situations in the future, thank you very much" – but there's something  _different_  about the present situation, possibly the tense anticipation that's hanging in the air.

Ja'far looks conflicted, like he wants to tell her to stop while she's ahead because he's probably embarrassed to death and is afraid of not being good enough for her and really  _does_  think that it isn't proper for him to touch her in this way, but she knows that if he'd really wanted to, he could've gotten out of his binds not a minute after she first tied him up. Ja'far  _is_  scared, but as always, he's trusting that she knows what she's doing, that she wouldn't ever do anything that isn't in both their best interests, so he's allowing her free reign to his body. It's a powerful, heady thing, this trust, this  _permission_ , and Sinbad finally understands why Vittel had looked simultaneously honored and overwhelmed when she decided to give him her virginity.

She's fully naked now, and Ja'far's eyes are roaming all over her body; because it's  _Ja'far_ , the gaze is not so much lecherous as it is curious and analytical, which somehow makes it more pleasant than if he'd been leering at her like almost any other teenage boy would in his situation. His gaze stops briefly on her breasts, which Sinbad knows he likes mostly because of the comfort her bosom brings him when she embraces him after his more violent nightmares; then it goes to her legs and abdomen, observing the sharp muscle definition there and, unlike most men, not finding it a somewhat unattractive feature on a woman who, like all her brethren, is supposed to be weak and squishy and  _soft_ ; then, lastly, it skitters down to the apex of her thighs, observing the neatly trimmed tuft of purple fur he finds there with an almost scientific curiosity. Despite how hard he is, there's barely any interest to be found on his face, but the look in his eyes when they dart back up to stare into hers is proof enough that he is  _far_  from unaffected by her display.

"So," he says at last when they've both spent several long moments scrutinizing each other without a word. "You're really doing this then, Sin?"

"Yup," Sinbad replies brightly, smiling like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth even as she rubs an affectionate, oiled thumb over one of his petal-pink nipples and revels in the absolutely  _darling_  little gasp and shiver this earns her.

Red-faced, Ja'far nods like he never expected her to back down when they've already gotten this far, and of course he didn't – he knows her far too well for that. He's probably known for months that she was planning on claiming him any day now, her clever little subordinate.

And because he wants this too, even though he's well-aware that Sinbad isn't like most women in that  _she'll_  be the one taking  _him_  rather than the other way around, Ja'far doesn't put up a single word of protest when she leans down to kiss him with the same passion she shows during particularly good fights, her breasts pressing against him as one of her hands creeps not-so-discreetly up his inner thigh.

He's always been Sinbad's, mind, body and soul. This is just another way for him to give himself to her.

* * *

"Ne, Sinbad-san," Alibaba Saluja begins hesitantly one fine afternoon years later, sitting idle next to Aladdin and Morgiana who are diligently practicing their writing on the special alphabet parchments Yamuraiha commissioned for them. "I always wondered…you're really strong of course, but how is it that you managed to make so many countries recognize you as the ruler of Sindria even though you're, well…?"

"A woman?" Sinbad supplies with a mischievous smile, grabbing with both hands onto the rare opportunity to interrupt her slogging through paperwork and slack off for a few minutes. She has no idea who decided it was good idea to situate the three notoriously boisterous children in the Queen's office for the day, but clearly she owes them a fruit basket.

"That's right, Sinbad-obasan!" Aladdin pipes up, apparently happy for the chance to take a small break from his studies as well. "Pisti-oneesan said that Artemyra only has a queen because it's a country ruled by women. Is Sindria like that too?"

"Ah, no," Sinbad corrects with a slightly twitching eyebrow – Aladdin is an endearing little squirt, but does he  _really_  have to remind her of her age  _quite_  so often? – even as she keeps up her pleasant expression. "Sindria, like most countries of this era, is ruled by a man. Technically."

Apparently, their conversation has become interesting enough to attract even the hard-working Morgiana's attention. "A man? Sinbad-san, you're married?"

Alibaba, the shrewdest of the three thanks to the years of political training he underwent as a child, picks up on her small hint. "'Technically'?"

"Yes, I married my current husband years ago, and I must say, I'm quite satisfied with him to this day!" Sinbad replies with an exuberant laugh as she reclines in her throne-like desk chair, crossing her arms under her sizable chest and trying not to notice the little magi's suddenly dazed look. "He's a self-effacing sort of King. He's really the driving force behind Sindria's success as a nation, as even _my_ overwhelming charisma wouldn't quite have been enough to keep it afloat since its founding if not for him; you'll never hear him call  _himself_  the king, though."

"Is he shy, Sinbad-obasan?" Aladdin asks as he leans forward eagerly, and Sinbad pretends it's due to her excellent storytelling skills rather than any desire to get a good look down her robes. Solomon, but this kid makes her feel old in more ways than one.

Sinbad lets a wolfish grin curl her lips, her sadistic side purring at the way Alibaba instinctively pales and scoots his chair back a little. "Well, you wouldn't think so, seeing him now, but you should've seen how  _red_  his face got the first time I let him grab my chest. Or the first time I stuck my hand down his trousers—"

"— _And_  that's quite enough out of you now, Sin, thank you very much."

As one, the four occupants of the Queen's office turn to face said office's door, finding Sindria's Head Advisor standing there with an armful of yet more scrolls for Sinbad to go over and, yes, a small, nearly imperceptible flush on the bridge of his freckled nose. The three children miss it in favor of noticing the look of near-deadly irritation on Ja'far's face, however, and instantly go back to pretending to be very hard at work in learning their letters (Alibaba, who had only accompanied his two mostly-illiterate younger friends because he was bored and lonely, flounders hilariously for a few moments before he pulls out a bit of string from his pocket and becomes  _very interested_  in twisting it into as many knots as he can manage, sneaking terrified glances at Ja'far every few seconds. Sinbad gamely refrains from laughing in his face).

"Really, Sin, what kind of stories are you rotting their ears with? They're only children," Ja'far berates Sinbad as he strides over to her desk with small, precise steps that, naturally, are completely soundless. He then neatly, and with a not-so-hidden undertone of vengefulness, adds the three extra scrolls – at least five feet long each by the looks of their thickness,  _why_  did she ever decide that founding her own country was a good idea? – to her pile of yet-untackled paperwork. "Here, reports on the new trade routes you've been trying to bully Knight King Leoxses into building. One day he's going to get truly fed up with you, you know."

"The stingy old man loves me," Sinbad states decisively, before turning a look on her advisor that's so chock-full of innocence, it might just fool an angel into thinking her to be one as well. "And Alibaba-kun, at least, is amply old enough for such stories. Why, it's high time he finally became a man!" She happily ignores the sound of said prince of Balbadd choking on his own spit before sputtering in indignation. "You're just being testy because you dislike reminiscing over the times when I still had the upper hand in bed."

Ja'far looks the most long-suffering she's ever seen him, which is saying something, and he has apparently given up on preserving the sanctity of their three young refugees' virgin ears, because he wearily replies, "Don't try to act the victim when you know perfectly well that the upper hand is  _still_  yours and always will be."

Sinbad doesn't even try to hide the smug glee in her eyes. She knows she would fail. "Indeed it will, husband of mine, and I'll be more than happy to prove it to you again tonight if you've come to doubt that."

Ja'far only rolls his eyes at her and hides both hands within his sleeves in an unspoken threat she instinctively winces at, her own hands snapping out to grasp quill and parchment before she knows it. "If you don't finish your paperwork by dinnertime today, I certainly won't be gracing your bed for at least the coming week, I'll tell you now."

" _Ja'faaar_!" Sinbad whines instinctively, reaching out to grab the back of his robes before he can rush off to parts unknown – i.e. his own office, where he'll proceed to sate his workaholic urges without further thought to his poor, exhausted Queen. " _I'm_  the wife, shouldn't  _I_  get to be the one who nags you all the time and has unpredictable mood swings and constantly threatens so deprive you of sex?"

This, naturally, sparks another round of bickering, as Ja'far is quite disgruntled to have just had his masculinity questioned so bluntly, whereas Sinbad delights in teasing him by bringing up the many "wifely" duties her advisor is prone to taking on if given half the chance. And five minutes later, Ja'far storms out of her office in a huff, bright red ears hidden under his keffiyeh but the constant string of angry muttering escaping from his scowling mouth a dead give-away of his irritation. Sinbad watches him go with a fond smile, which remains but turns a tad strained when she glances down and sees exactly how much paperwork she'll have to complete if she wants to get some tonight.

When she notices the dead silence that has fallen over her office like a near-tangible weight, she glances up, and is highly entertained to see the three children who had just borne mute witness to the Queen and advisor's argument watching the doorway Ja'far has just disappeared to with a look of absolute bewilderment.

"Ah, right, you three didn't know," she pipes up as if in realization, holding back a smirk when the kids' heads snap around so they can stare dumbfoundedly at her instead. "An honor as always, isn't it – being in the presence of the King of Sindria?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Ja'far is king of Sindria in this one! Pretty sure I've never seen it done before. But I adore fem!Sin, and SinJa, and Ja'far, so this happened.


	6. Two-faced Ja'far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did the foul-mouthed little brat of an assassin Ja'far once was, grow into the polite, amiable man he is today? Well, they always say that Reim wasn't built in a day...but in the present case, the opposite is true.

In the end, the creepiest part was that  _it happened overnight_.

One day, Ja'far was his usual adorable foul-mouthed, short-tempered, murderous self (Hinahoho, upon hearing Sinbad describe the pint-sized assassin as such, had helpfully informed his future King that Sinbad was the only one who could look at a poisonous snake making a play for his jugular and call it  _cute_. Sinbad chose to take that as a compliment), verbally and physically abusing Sinbad to his heart's content.

The next… _well_. Sinbad still got nightmares just thinking back on that first day.

* * *

"Sin-sama, it's time to wake up."

Sinbad groaned, stubbornly nuzzling into his pillow and wrinkling his nose at the still-damp spot of drool he found on the rough fabric. Whoever the owner of that soft, husky and oddly pleasant voice was, he had another think coming if he truly believed that Sin was going to drag himself out of bed before another three hours – at the very least – had passed.

"Sin-sama, please don't be difficult. We have a busy day ahead, and the rest of our company is already up. They're all waiting on you for breakfast."

_So polite_. Still, Sinbad wondered when it had become customary for hotel staff to just up and wander into clients' rooms to wake them up, not to mention address said clients with such an odd mix of familiarity and formality…but either way, the mystery servant could sit on it and spin, because Sinbad wasn't moving. He was feeling all warm and fuzzy and sleep-heavy and snuggly, and his covers were  _soo_  nice, and he wasn't getting up, not  _ever_ —

"I see. You leave me no choice, then; I apologize in advance."

Not a second later, Sinbad was lying on the cold, hard floor, tangled up in his sheets like a Heliohaptian mummy and cursing the entire coming day to hell and back as his head throbbed from its recent impact with solid wood.

"Whaa—" he slurred, his words coming out muddled as a result of both a possible concussion and a still sleep-foggy mind. "What the hell was that for? What'd I ever do to you?"

"I warned you," the voice replied, calm as you please and so unassumingly rational that Sinbad somehow felt properly chastised despite having just been literally  _tossed_ out of bed by a virtual stranger. "Now, everyone has gathered in the dining room. I do hope you'll be joining us soon."

Sinbad managed to disentangle himself from his cotton prison just as the mystery person trotted out of the room with brisk, efficient steps, and the Dungeon capturer just barely caught sight of a head of silvery-white hair before the door to his cabin – that's right, he was on a  _ship_ headed back to Reim, not in a luxury hotel – closed with a brisk snap.

"…Ja'far?"

Sinbad spent a bare second puzzling over this obviously impossible conclusion before he laughed it off, chuckling lightly at his own ridiculousness. Ja'far's usual wake-up calls were more along the lines of:

_"_ _Hey, worm! I have a good feeling about my chances at killing you today, so you'd better get your ass on deck in five or I'll shave off all your girly hair while you keep snoring like the useless, moronic slob you are!"_

…Yep. Ever the charmer, his sweet little Ja'far was.

Still…if this silvery-haired person who had taken the liberty of waking him, who addressed him with a more respectful form of the not-so-affectionate nickname Ja'far had affixed him with several months ago, and who  _was on Sinbad's ship_ , wasn't Ja'far – then who in the world was he?

* * *

By the time Sinbad was up, dressed and no longer bleary-eyed and slow-minded, just the smell that was wafting from the kitchens had been enough to turn his thunderous mood right back around to at-peace-and-possibly-even- _content_ -with-the-world.

However, when he strolled into the aforementioned cramped little room, it was only to find two of his closest friends seated at an elegantly set breakfast table, shoulders hunched as if they were trying to disappear into themselves and looking at least a hundred times more horrified than they would've if they had just seen a ghost.

"Hello Hinahoho, hi Drakon! What's wrong with you two today, looking so spooked first thing in the morning?" Sinbad enquired jovially as he sat himself down beside the Imuchakk warrior, temporarily ignoring their obvious malaise in favor of sweeping an appreciative glance over the expansive, gently steaming breakfast spread that took up almost the entirety of the ship's sole (diminutive) table. He made a mental note to thank Rurumu profusely for this later.

When several long moments passed and his friends still hadn't responded, Sinbad looked up and blinked confusedly when he found them staring back at him with mingled exasperation, horror and concern. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

The two giants exchanged a speaking look, before Drakon seemingly decided to bite the bullet and turned his full attention – and his massive upper body – to Sin, cringing when his bulky frame knocked into the table and made the delicate dishware arranged on it rattle noisily.

"Listen, Sinbad. Did anything… _odd_ , happen to you this morning?"

Sinbad tilted his head at the strange question, and then brightened, slapping a fist down onto his upturned palm in realization. "Oh! Now that you mention it – did we pick up something else at the last port? Because someone dropped by my cabin to wake me up this morning and, funnily enough, I couldn't recognize them at all!"

Hinahoho looked like he couldn't decide between face-palming and violently palming  _Sinbad's_  face instead, whereas Drakon merely took on a haunted look, which looked rather strange on his usually fairly inexpressive, draconic features. But still, valiant and loyal friends to the end, they  _did_  try their best to warn him of the terror he was about to face. "That was someone you  _knew_ , Sin! It's Ja'far, I don't know what's happened to him but it's like he's gone completely  _insa_ —"

"What are we talking about?"

Hinahoho and Drakon froze like deer facing down a hunter's arrow, which looked particularly incongruous on such huge, brawny men; but when Sinbad looked up to finally discover the identity of the mysterious man behind his wake-up call, he suddenly understood the reason for his friends' all-too-obvious distress – because he was now experiencing it, himself.

It was Ja'far, and yet…it  _wasn't_. Gone were the ragged bandages that hid his adorable freckles from view and made his eyes look sharper than the blade of Baal's metal vessel. Gone were his messy, overlong mess of white hair and the tattered sand-colored cloak he insisted on wearing to this day, gone was his perpetually wary and drawn-up posture, and gone was the rough, crude, almost mocking edge that curled and played around every word that passed Ja'far's hidden lips.

The little boy standing before them now was undeniably adorable. But so were baby desert snakes dozing in the shade of tall boulders, right before they reared back and bit you in the face.

Between his shorter, neater haircut and the disappearance of the bandages, the entirety of Ja'far's face was visible, and it was an endearing sight: soft, kind-looking features, with round, smiling lips, a perky little nose sprinkled with a dusting of cinnamon-colored freckles, and huge doe-like gray eyes that regarded the three bigger males before him with nothing but gentleness and calm patience. He was clad in a neatly pressed white shirt with somewhat poofy sleeves, a long cream-colored sash that was wrapped around his waist, and plain pale brown trousers that matched his slightly darker slippers perfectly. And he was standing by the breakfast table, looking completely pleasant and non-confrontational, and holding a platter of piping hot honey-glazed pastries as if he would like nothing more than to freely offer one to any who may be interested.

Sinbad discreetly pinched his own thigh. When he didn't wake up, and the illusion before him didn't waver, he slapped himself in the face instead.

…And nearly toppled straight off his chair when, instead of laughing in said face, Ja'far rushed forward with an expression of abject concern, his little hand gently reaching up to press against Sinbad's brow.

"Are you alright, Sin-sama? Honestly, what were you thinking, harming yourself like that…Do you have a fever? Would you like me to fetch you some water?"

Sinbad didn't respond for a good few minutes, staring fixedly ahead as he allowed Ja'far to fuss over him. By the time Ja'far ceased worriedly clucking his tongue at him, apparently deeming him unharmed, and moved on to serving everyone breakfast instead, Sinbad was finding it harder and harder to keep his questions – and  _completely manly_  screams of abject terror – at bay.

"I made this all myself, so I hope you won't leave any seconds behind!" Ja'far was proudly chirping, and instantly Hinahoho and Drakon blanched even further and sent Sinbad looks of mute, desperate pleading over Ja'far's shoulder.

(Their reactions might've seemed excessive to any bystanders, but Sinbad and his two bulkiest friends had been on the receiving end of one of Ja'far's biweekly, casual  _to-keep-you-boneheads-on-your-toes_  assassination attempts often enough to know that the kid was a poison specialist who was very much immune to his own favorite deadly concoctions and that, while a sufficiently low dosage wouldn't actually  _kill_  his three hapless victims, it did have all manner of unpleasant effects on the human body.)

"You all need to eat more!  _Look_  at yourself, Sin-sama, just skin and bones—"

" **Ja'far**."

The deadly seriousness that had supplanted Sinbad's normally cocky and lackadaisical tone was enough to stop the ex-assassin in his tracks, and Ja'far asked with a tone of innocent curiosity, "Yes, Sin-sama?"

"What in the  _world_  do you think you're doing?"

And, as if Ja'far had only been waiting for a sufficiently dramatic moment to break character, a look of absolutely malicious glee stole across his cherubic face.

"Well, moron," Ja'far began with obvious relish and yes,  _that_  was the Ja'far he knew, mouth curved in a blade-sharp smirk and eyes as cold and void of empathy as those of a predator about to strike. "If you're going to be a King, then I'll want a position of power in your kingdom, not to mention you're an idiot and will definitely need me to keep your country afloat. So I'll be your Head Advisor. And head advisors…"

Ja'far tilted his head gently to the side, making his hair sway with the movement and catch the sunlight that beamed through the kitchens' narrow windows, setting the silvery strands alight with a near-angelic glow. His smile, close-mouthed, guileless and polite, was sweet enough to give Sinbad cavities. "…they've got to be respectful  _and_  respectable, now don't they? And unfailingly loyal and amiable, of course, and polite, and above all, self-contained. So I'm getting in some early practice now!"

With immense satisfaction, Ja'far surveyed the three thoroughly traumatized, despairing faces that stared back at him (obviously, the three stooges had only  _now_  realized that this new, freakishly  _nice_  and  _pleasant_  Ja'far was there to stay) and allowed his cruder self to show for a short moment as he threw his head back to cackle like a true-blue villain.

"And the best part is – Rurumu  _approves_  of my 'reformation'! Now, I've got better things to do than waste my time around you pansies, so I'm off. Oh and by the way, the food isn't poisoned. Or  _is_  it…?"

And so it was that a perfectly composed little white-haired pre-teen briskly made his way out of the kitchen, a noncommittal but generally helpful smile on his cute little face as he headed off to read up some more on recommended economic policies for fledgling nations.

"Sinbad," Hinahoho said very slowly, very quietly once they were sure that the tiny demon in human flesh was well and truly gone. "What have you  _done_?"

The future King of Sindria could only think back on all the times he had lied to- and manipulated people, allowed his ego to get the better of him, and/or seduced married women away from their loving husbands – and decide that karma truly was a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And to this day, Sinbad, Drakon and Hinahoho are still terrified of Ja'far because they never know when he'll drop the friendly pretense, turn around and stab them in the fucking face for pissing him off. And Ja'far, sadistic little bastard that he secretly still is (though working as a diplomat has mellowed him out a bit), likes it that way.
> 
> I wrote this because of the eternal debate between: is Ja'far actually that nice, and he simply relapses occasionally into his old self, or is he actually still as brutal and vulgar as he used to be, and is just pretending to be all nice and motherly and polite for the sake of furthering his nefarious goals? The world may never know. (Personally, I subscribe to the first theory, but I am madly in love with bandaged-baby-assassin!Ja'far so I had to write this.)


	7. Lazy morning in bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ja'far and Sinbad have a bit of a lie-in, and there is intense fluff and very mild quasi-smut. That is all.

Ja'far is a bit of a workaholic.

…Alright, so he's a huge workaholic whose  _hobby_  is working and who doesn't own any articles of clothing that aren't nightwear or work attire. But all the same, even he enjoys having a bit of downtime whenever he can squeeze it into his hectic schedule. And, though Sinbad is the one whom he prefers to spend his free time with, Ja'far really wishes his king would stop whining about how they never have time to meet anymore, as if it wasn't  _Sinbad's entire fault_  that most of the work in the castle falls onto Ja'far's shoulders since the king can't be bothered to do his own damn paperwork – or to force one of Ja'far's fellow generals to help him pick up some of the slack, given that Sinbad is about as permissive with all of his closest subordinates (Ja'far included) as a wealthy sultan with his favorite daughter.

Ja'far knows for a fact that, if he suddenly decided that he'd rather take on active work as one of the country's enforcers rather than its chief administrator, Sinbad would allow him to in a heartbeat. But Ja'far is also unfortunately aware of the fact that his own perfectionist tendencies, having been allowed to run unchecked for the past five years, have singlehandedly made him into Sindria's backbone in terms of political, economic and even social affairs, and so until he can find and train a successor – which, let him reiterate,  _he has no time for_  – it would be simply impossible for him to abruptly retire without it having adverse effects on his beloved country.

It's not like Ja'far even  _wants_  to retire, though: he enjoys his work, far more than is healthy if Sharrkan is to be believed, and the knowledge that he's become so useful to Sinbad that the King feels he can rely on Ja'far for virtually anything fills him with warmth.

It's just that…well, like he said, he simply doesn't get enough time off for his taste, and definitely not  _nearly_  enough for Sinbad's. Because he may not be as interested in pursuing the… _pleasures of the flesh_  as his King famously is, but that doesn't mean Ja'far doesn't fully appreciate occasionally getting the chance to spend a lazy morning in bed with his most important person.

As he is right now.

The white drapes that bracket the multitude of tall, thin windows in Sinbad's bedroom do very little to prevent the early morning sunlight from peeking in, but Ja'far doesn't mind: in fact, he appreciates the increase in warmth and, more importantly, visibility. While he's long since trained his night vision to be far sharper than that of the average human being, he can't deny that it's much easier to admire the visage of the man whose broad, firm torso he's coiled over like it's a sun-warmed rock, by the light of day.

Ja'far woke up just a handful of minutes ago, and since then all he's done is shift until he was in a better position to stare straight at Sinbad's sleeping face, and then proceed to do so; even after more than a decade of being the man's occasional bed partner, it's an activity Ja'far has never gotten bored of.

Sinbad, after all, is so ridiculously good-looking that it's almost unfair. Ja'far himself isn't exactly a troll, but when standing next to Sinbad, he might as well be a particularly plain and uninteresting wall fixture to any ladies who happen to be around. It's more a matter of ego that has him noticing this, though, than any real envy of Sinbad's success with women: Ja'far has always been far too busy pursuing his own objectives – become the chief assassin of Sham Lash,  _murder_  that know-it-all purple-haired bastard with extreme prejudice, somehow have a change of heart and decide to follow said bastard to the ends of the Earth for some Solomon-forsaken reason – to bother too much with women, or men, or, well,  _anyone_  who isn't Sinbad.

In Ja'far's eyes, absolutely  _everyone else_  in the world pales in comparison to his king.

Said eyes are softer and more open than he would ever allow them to be if Sinbad were awake as they trace over the sleeping king's features. Features that are strong, smooth, well-proportioned: a face that isn't too sharp or too harsh, nor too soft or too weak…

Full lips that Ja'far has kissed and  _been_  kissed  _by_  a thousand times before. A jaw whose contours he's nibbled- and outright  _bitten_  at more times than he can count. A strong, straight nose with which its owner seems to particularly enjoy nuzzling into Ja'far's inner thighs. Striking amber eyes that are currently closed, allowing Ja'far to peruse the long eyelashes that tickle his freckled cheeks when they are close enough to share their breaths while in the throes of passion. Eyebrows that are just this side of too thick but somehow seem to work for Sinbad, though Ja'far has never let Sinbad know that he thinks so, and in fact enjoys tracing them with his thumbs as he gently teases Sinbad for how fastidiously the King plucks them.

At some point, Ja'far's not sure when, his fingers joined his eyes in their thorough inspection of Sin's visage, the bone-white digits looking even paler against the warm tan of Sinbad's skin. They trace softly over the slight roughness of the sparse stubble along Sinbad's jaw – another thing that Sinbad will meticulously shave off before he makes any public appearances – then follow the slope of his nose, dancing, feather-light, over his closed eyelids before they settle for cupping the side of his face, a single thumb slowly stroking a cheekbone.

It isn't long before Ja'far feels the change in Sinbad's breathing as his liege slowly rouses from his slumber. The ex-assassin doesn't bother to remove his hands from his lover's person – Sinbad, for all his bravado and pride in his reputation as an untamable womanizer, enjoys the feeling of being cherished as much as anyone would – but he  _does_  reel in the emotion that he can feel all but beaming from his gray eyes when the king's amber-colored ones flutter open to peer back into his own.

"'Morning, Ja'far," Sinbad warmly greets his most faithful general after a single blink of confusion, apparently pleasantly surprised that Ja'far spent the whole night in his bed for once.

Ja'far smiles back wordlessly, dropping an affectionate kiss on his king's brow because unlike Ja'far, Sin – though he remains staunchly in denial regarding this uncomfortable truth – gets truly horrible morning breath. Sin grumbles quietly but doesn't try to reel Ja'far in for a proper liplock, as he's long since learned that he'll only be bodily pushed away from the fastidiously clean advisor if he dares. Instead, he struggles to his feet and lumbers sleepily towards his dresser, where he proceeds to clean his teeth and wash his face before staggering back to the bed, his favorite (and expensive) gold, ivory and boar-hair hairbrush in hand.

"Would you like anything special for today, Sin?" Ja'far enquires quietly, scooting back to make room for the king to flop down into a sloppy, cross-legged sitting position in front of him on the wrinkled sheets. Sinbad shakes his head with a muttered,  _The usual_ , and Ja'far effortlessly snatches the brush out of the air when it's thrown carelessly over a broad, naked shoulder.

Brushing Sin's hair in the mornings is a special kind of pleasure, one which both of them bemoan not being able to indulge in more often. Sinbad loves how gentle and careful Ja'far is with him when carefully taming his hair for the day ahead, his attention completely focused on Sinbad for once instead of mulling over several different urgent matters of the state; for his part, Ja'far simply relishes the sensation of closeness that comes with their unfortunately infrequent little morning ritual.

Sinbad's hair used to be somewhat coarse, back in the days when they were just the son of a poor fisherman, and a pint-sized assassin with a chip on his shoulder: after all, Sin's life before he'd conquered Baal's Dungeon hadn't exactly been the epitome of glamor. But after more than a decade of ruling over an exceptionally prosperous country, Sinbad has had the chance to take good care of his long purple mane for long enough that it's thick, glossy, shiny with health, and basically just a delight to the touch, though it  _does_  tangle terribly during the night.

Ja'far enjoys every second of being allowed to run the brush through the thick, dark locks, distantly noting exactly how different they are from his own feathery pale ones. The violet strands sift through his fingers like silk, an almost liquid caress that's near-erotic in its simplicity, especially when Ja'far recalls the feel of them sliding over his skin as Sinbad took him just the previous night. He doesn't allow his small surge of arousal to distract him from his task, however, and diligently keeps at it until Sin's hair is completely knot-free.

Sinbad has, by then, been reduced to little more than a puddle of blissful goo, and barely stirs when Ja'far leans over his shoulder to grab a white hair-tie from the king's night stand, only turning to press a grateful kiss to Ja'far's shoulder before the advisor can retreat behind him again. Ja'far returns the favor on the king's bronzed shoulder blade, and then gets to work on gathering the longest strands of the violet hair into the usual low ponytail, leaving the shorter ones stylishly unbound as Sinbad prefers it; he has long since given up on trying to tame that single, stubborn cowlick near Sinbad's bangs – it isn't quite so obvious and eye-catching when Sin wears his crown, anyway – but he spares it an annoyed glance nonetheless.

And then he tosses the brush aside and just lets himself flop forward, resting his weight on his king's strong back and burying his face in the long tail of purple locks that trails down along Sinbad's spine with a quiet sigh.

"Done already?" Sinbad asks with an undertone of mingled amusement and disappointment, his voice still thick with sleep. Ja'far nods, wrapping his arms around the king's naked waist and pressing still closer to his lover, humming happily when the Sinbad's hands rise to tangle with his own where they rest over the king's toned stomach.

Ja'far leaves a lingering, open-mouthed kiss on the nape of Sinbad's neck and the Dungeon conqueror shivers delightfully, tilting his head to give the other man better access; but Ja'far ignores the unspoken invitation and simply goes back to snuggling up to Sinbad's back. When Ja'far's fingers begin to trail curiously over the lines of his toned abdomen before drifting lower, however, Sinbad can no longer put up with the mostly-unintentional teasing and, in one swift motion, turns at the waist, grabs Ja'far by the underarms like a child, and hauls the surprised advisor bodily onto his lap. Ja'far blinks once, twice in surprise at his sudden relocation, before gracing his king with an exasperatedly affectionate smile that Sinbad can't simply  _not_  kiss away.

Their initially chaste liplock quickly turns heated when Sinbad's hands slide under the sheet covering Ja'far like a Reimish toga and lick burning trails up his thighs and hips to settle on his waist. Ja'far finds himself instinctively sidling closer, until their groins are pressed together in such a way that Sinbad can't help but buck forward and leave them both trembling slightly with anticipation.

"Up for a bit of morning fun, or are you in a hurry?" Sinbad husks into Ja'far's neck, one big, warm hand slipping down to cup the growing hardness pressing against his belly.

The sound Ja'far gives in response is half-sigh, half-moan as his thighs tighten around the hips of the man he's now well and truly straddling. An embarrassingly eager whimper is then forced from his throat when Sinbad begins sucking at his pulse-point, simultaneously giving Ja'far's backside a gentle squeeze with obvious intent, and despite Ja'far's best efforts he feels his resolve to  _rise early_  and  _be as productive as possible_ once Sin was taken care of, begin to slip from his grasp like a handful of sand.

Then Sinbad surges forward to capture his lips in a searing kiss, and Ja'far sneaks a hand into the king's previously perfect hair and  _yanks_ , ruining his own hard work and prompting a deep, throaty growl from Sinbad that sends pleasant shivers down his spine – and Ja'far gives in with a not-so-rueful sigh that disappears into his king and lover's sinfully talented mouth.

Just this once, Ja'far will allow himself to put off facing the day ahead for a little longer. The mountain of paperwork that has no doubt already overtaken his desk will simply have to wait.

Fulfilling his King's wishes, even more so than completing his duties as an administrator, is paramount, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, this particular drabble was born more from my desire to write an ode to Sinbad's character design, and to write Ja'far brushing Sin's fabulous hair, than anything else.


	8. SinJu, one-sided JuHaku and one-sided(?) SinJa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I had to write a summary for this chapter, it would be: Judal and Ja’far you poor babies oh no oh no Sinbad you moron what are you doing NO.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the incredibly long delay between updates. I’ve been really busy working on a very long (by my standards) JuHaku multi-chapter fic, which I shall hopefully manage to finish and begin publishing someday soon. Fingers crossed.

Ja’far can hear them again.

Moans, whimpers, screams, damn near _screeches_ when the younger of the two is reaching his peak. The _slap-slap-slap_ of hips against ass, the slick slide of skin on skin, the rustling of sheets and the sound of deep, heaving, frantic breaths.

Ja’far, who has trained himself since he was a small child to be woken at the sound of a leaf falling at five hundred paces, hasn’t a hope in hell of sleeping through the racket, given that his stupid, senseless, damnable protectiveness and _loyalty_ – and something else he _refuses_ to put a name to – prompted him to choose the set of rooms nearest to his King’s when they first settled into the newly built palace of Sindria.

Ja’far wants to jump out of bed, break down _their_ door and tell them to _shut up_ already, give it a rest, or at least go continue their sordid activities in the bathhouses downstairs so he can finally get some Solomon-damned shut-eye. Ever since this whole mess started, he’s _dreamed_ of doing that, every single night; and every single night, he’s restrained himself, because he’s simply not that brave after all. He’s just an assassin, one who kills under the cover of darkness and slips away before he can be drawn into a real battle, unlike his King who’s a true-blue smug bastard of a hero or his King’s newest bedmate, who’s an attention whore on top of moonlighting as Sinbad’s catamite.

Uncharitable thoughts, perhaps, but not exactly atypical when coming from one who suffers of a broken heart.

It hurts like said heart being ripped out of his chest, it _always_ does, but what can he do about it, really? Sinbad has always preferred adventure to routine, danger to safety, thrill to tranquility. What risk, what challenge, what _fun_ would there be in fucking a subordinate who would do absolutely _anything_ for him if Sinbad only asked, when instead he could play around with a beautiful, powerful young thing who’d be just as happy killing Sinbad as he is being bedded by him?

Ja’far has been by Sinbad’s side for fourteen years now, and yet he’d never known that Sinbad occasionally has flings with men until Judal came into the picture. Clearly, if Sinbad were at all interested in his comparatively plain-looking, freckled subordinate, he’d have made a move long before this.

But he hasn’t. And Ja’far never will, because remaining by Sinbad’s side is paramount, and he’d take countless sleepless nights of listening to Sinbad fuck another over being driven away from the warmth that is Sinbad and Sindria, any day.

* * *

“Ah-ahhn…harder…”

Sinbad obliges, feeling the muscles in his thighs burn from the strain as he pistons over and over into the young man who’s practically bent in half beneath him.

“Haaaaahhh…! Ahh…put your back into it, damn you!”

_Loud_ , Sinbad thinks. He’s never minded his bed partners getting a little vocal, but all the same, he can’t help but think that if it were _that person_ , their voice would be much more subdued indeed, strangled and quiet in an effort to be considerate of Purple Leo Tower’s other residents, but still rough and wrecked and achingly sweet—

“Oi, Sinbad,” Judal growls suddenly, no doubt having noticed the pinkening of Sinbad’s rukh as the king’s thoughts wandered to more pleasant directions. “No…distractions…ahhn…got that?”

Sinbad graces the dark magi with a tight smile, and forces his mind back on track. Sounding completely, infuriatingly unfazed even in the throes of passion is a skill he’s long since perfected, and he puts it to use when he replies with a simple, “Of course, Judal.”

“ _Bastard_ —“ Judal chokes out, his voice dwindling into a high whine when Sinbad grinds mercilessly into his sweet spot. The magi’s nails dig almost cruelly into Sinbad’s sides, and Sinbad has to admit that Judal _does_ look beautiful like this, his impossibly long black hair seeming to absorb the ambient candlelight without reflecting it, garnet eyes darkened with passion and the lines of his face gentler than they ever get when he’s gleefully taunting Sinbad for his soft-heartedness and weakness, or for that hopeless, one-sided infatuation of the King’s that Judal is, mortifyingly, all too aware of.

Which is why the next words out of the magi’s mouth are a breathless litany of, “Sin, Sin, _Sin_ ,” causing Sinbad to shudder almost convulsively – _oh you little wretch, who’s really the bastard here?_ – and ram into Judal even harder than before, wringing an outright scream from the Kou oracle’s lips.

For just a few moments, the image of Judal beneath him shimmers like a mirage and becomes something out of Sinbad’s wildest dreams.

Pure white hair splayed out on the royal purple pillow, gleaming like fine strands of silver under the moonlight. A perfect, snow-pale body that cradles Sinbad’s own, welcoming it with the ease of long practice, taking each of Sinbad’s long thrusts with a spasm of pleasure and a throaty cry of bliss. Slender hands reach up to tangle in the long locks of violet that drip over them both, tugging gently, affectionately. The face of the man below Sinbad is flushed, cinnamon-colored freckles visible even under the rosy hue, overwhelmed tears coursing down smooth cheeks, mouth open mid-moan, eyebrows furrowed as if in pain but eyes smiling, huge and star-bright and overflowing with love that’s all for _him_ —

Sinbad comes with a grunt, snapping back into reality in the same breath and feeling, for just a second, confused as to what he’s doing here, who this strange, dark boy who’s so unlike the moon-pale one he loves could possibly be, before he remembers himself and pulls out. Distantly, he notices that Judal has released as well, though he looks about as happy and satisfied as Sinbad imagines he does right now: not very.

“Calling out someone else’s name when you cum – not exactly good form, Sinbad. I have no idea how you became known as the ‘Womanizer of the Seven Seas’ with an attitude like that,” Judal snarks wearily as he cleans up the mess on his toned stomach with the corner of a stray bedsheet: the magi is clearly trying to sound flippant, but Sinbad hears the note of very real offense in his voice, and winces imperceptibly with remorse.

He’s certainly not in love with Judal, and they both know it – and, though the magi is hardly talkative regarding that particular subject, Sinbad has managed to gather that Judal is thoroughly infatuated with someone who won’t give him the time of day. Judal is never more human, more vulnerable, than when he’s here with Sinbad; because however viciously they might tear at each other, both verbally and physically, out in the light of day, here in the dark when they’re not-so-successfully struggling to take solace in each other, they’re only two men who understand each other’s pain only too well.

Judal takes Sinbad’s silence the way it’s meant: a tacit apology, with no assurances that this won’t happen again. The magi is certainly no genius, but he _is_ scarily good at reading people – or rather, reading their rukh. So when he sees the way Sinbad has just physically and mentally drawn away from him, sitting with his bare, powerful back to the magi and staring up at the moon high outside his window with an expression of wistful longing straight out of one of the old hag’s trashy bodice-rippers, Judal knows instantly that there won’t be a round two tonight.

They’re both as different from each other’s respective flames as one can get, but that hasn’t stopped them from losing themselves in the heat of the moment, depressingly often, and it doesn’t mean that they don’t usually end up even more despondent than before these supposedly _healing_ encounters whenever they come crashing back to reality.

Sinbad’s skin is too dark for Judal’s taste, and void of any significant scarring; the king’s hair is too long and too thick, his body is too tall and brawny, his eyes aren’t wide enough and his nose is too large and his eyebrows are too thick and his jawline is too harsh – and really, Judal hanging around when they’re both clearly done here isn’t doing either of them any favors.

Sinbad barely spares Judal a glance when he quickly shrugs his usual skimpy attire back on, throwing a vague wave in the magi’s direction as he floats out of Sinbad’s rooms through the nearest window without a single word of good-bye between the two of them.

For a month now, Sinbad has been doing this, ever since he happened upon a drunken Ja’far enjoying a tryst with one of the older palace guards, fucking brazen as you please (if admittedly quietly) in the middle of a public hallway while most of the palace’s inhabitants were down in the city celebrating the latest Mahrajan. He seduced Judal into his bed the very next day when the magi stopped by seemingly solely for the sake of taunting him ( _and he's not proud of it, because Judal is eleven years younger than him and understands so little about the world and his own emotions that he might as well be a young child when it comes to matters of the mind and heart_ ) – not out of some petty sense of revenge, but simply because, well, now that he knew that Ja’far was attracted to men, was attracted to _anyone_ at all, surely if Sinbad made it clear that he was as well, Ja’far would eventually turn to him?

It’s not exactly the way he’s dreamed of beginning a relationship with his most trusted, most valued, most beloved person, and Sinbad isn’t proud of himself whenever he catches sight of the black circles that have appeared under Ja’far’s eyes and seem to seem to be spreading and darkening with every passing day; but at this point, he’s desperate enough to keep at it until somehow, someway, it yields results and gets him what he’s always wanted.

Even if it starts out as a simple, convenient affair between two people with similar preferences and no time to look for other partners, Sinbad is fine with it, is confident that with time, he’ll make Ja’far fall for him just as deeply as Sinbad already has for his Head Advisor.

Even if it this harebrained plan never yields any results, if Ja’far gets annoyed enough to move further away or tells Sinbad to stop sleeping with the enemy already or simply informs Sinbad up-front that he isn’t interested and never will be, Sinbad has to at least try.

Even if he has to resort to the most twisted of methods to get his way, Sinbad loves Ja’far far too much to give up on him without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really not sure about this one. I wanted to write Sinbad being his real manipulative self because I like him that way even though he can be a complete and utter bastard, and I wanted to write SinJa and JuHaku triumphing over SinJu because I’m petty that way. Still, the ending was unsatisfying for me.   
> (IMO, just as Sinbad belongs to Ja’far, Judal belongs solely to Hakuryuu.)  
> Incidentally (SPOILERS FOR ANYONE WHO’S NOT FULLY UP TO DATE WITH THE MANGA YET), Ohtaka went and did it, didn’t she? She made Sinbad into David’s avatar/reincarnation/descendant/servant/something. I swear I let out an honest-to-Solomon scream of rage when I read that part, even though admittedly it’s a really cool development plot-wise.


	9. KHR fusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sinbad, first Boss of the recently founded Sindria Famiglia, has almost achieved a full Harmony: he's still missing a Storm. He’s ecstatic when he finally meets the right match, but winning the prickly hitman – who happens to be a valuable asset of Al-Thamen’s – over to his side will no doubt be anything but easy.

Back when he’d still been fifteen, high on his success as the youngest boss in mafia history and full of dreams of future grandeur, Sinbad had never once considered that he might one day attend a party that he would be genuinely bored at. Why should he? Parties were great, after all. They meant free access to food and alcohol by the barrels, and blanket permission to be as debauched as he wanted _and_ deny any responsibility for it on the morning after!

Oh, the naïvety of youth.

Fourteen years later, whenever his Family – or, more often than not, _he_ – decided that it was time to break out the booze, fun was had by all. The Sindria Family mansion would be shaken to its foundations by the roaring laughter and ribald, horrendously off-key drinking songs that would rend the night air, interspersed by bawdy tales and baseless boasting of past bedroom exploits that would generate yet more undignified guffawing. They’d all wake up the next morning in a dogpile on the sitting room floor, mostly unclothed and heads splitting with a killer hangover, but already looking forward to the next time they’d have the chance to really let loose. _That_ was Sinbad’s definition of a party.

The annual New Year’s gala thrown by the (very very illegal) business empire that was the Kou Triads, was as _far_ from that as one could get. It was all stuffy tuxedoes and sparkling gowns, pretentious French finger foods and crystal flutes full of champagne that even _tasted_ expensive, all in a ballroom that took a good fifteen minutes to cross at a brisk trot and was decorated so lavishly it almost hurt to look at it. Conversations were rife with hidden barbs, vicious insinuations and veiled threats, bosses and their respective bodyguards eyeing each other beadily across their gold-encrusted plates as they braced themselves for the various assassination attempts that occurred almost traditionally at such occasions.

Worst of all, high-ranking members of _that_ Organization were always in attendance, swarming around the Kou Clan’s unnaturally youthful-looking matriarch like bees to sickly-sweet honey; so on top of keeping an eye out for anyone who might try poisoning or just outright attacking him, and holding his own in the inevitable verbal battles with rival bosses, Sinbad also had to carefully keep a lid on his temper and _not_ attack the human cockroaches whose dearest wish was the destruction of the world as he knew it.

The boss of the fairly minor, if well-established Balbadd family, whom Sinbad had engaged in a discussion in order to distract himself from his homicidal urges, was currently doing his very best to gain the upper hand over Sinbad in their banter, but the Sindria Family’s own boss was unimpressed so far. He’d known Ahbmad since the kid was still in the single-digits, and said kid hadn’t gotten much shrewder since then – nor, come to think of it, much taller.

The late former Balbadd boss, now _he_ had been a man Sinbad could respect; in fact, Rashid Saluja had even been the one to help Sinbad find his footing in the dark world of the Mafia back when he’d just started gathering his comrades and building his own criminal empire. At just a glance, Sinbad could tell that the blond young man standing by Ahbmad’s left shoulder – Rashid’s third, most favored and illegitimate son, Sinbad believed, not that the sacred vows of marriage really counted for anything in the Underworld – had more potential as a boss in his pinky finger than Ahbmad did in his entire diminutive body.

But by the looks of it, the boy (Alibaba, wasn’t it?), though he seemed plenty exasperated with his older brother and boss, didn’t possess much ambition, as he had yet to try, even once, staging a coup d’état in his Family and making a play for the title of head. It was a shame: Sinbad might’ve even been willing to support him, had the young man been so inclined.

“Our Family has been doing particularly well for the past year,” Ahbmad was bragging in a practiced “cultured” tone (which didn’t have quite the desired effect, due to the lisp he’d never quite managed to train himself out of), having clearly not noticed that Sinbad was only paying attention to maybe every fifth word that came out of the man’s wide, fat-lipped mouth. “Ever since I recruited Banker as a financial advisor, our profits—“

Wait. Waitwait _wait_ just a second there. Sinbad had always known that the twenty-seventh Balbadd boss possessed absolutely _none_ of his father’s political and economic acumen, but still – _what_ had he just said?

“Banker? What an odd name,” Sinbad interjected with practiced nonchalance even as his mind frantically worked to calculate the potential fallout of Ahbmad’s latest revoltingly stupid decision in regards to the Balbadd Family. “It almost sounds like the kind of titles the Al-Thamen group likes to bestow on its agents.”

Sharrkan and Masrur, standing behind him on his left and right respectively, instinctively bristled at the mere mention of the Organization, but were thankfully self-contained enough to withhold the barrage of disparaging comments that Sinbad’s white-haired Rain guardian, at least, no doubt wanted to hurl at the smug-looking enemy boss.

“Of course! Banker is a new recruit from that very group, after all!” Ahbmad replied proudly as he puffed out a short chest that was at least three-quarters beer-belly, apparently oblivious to the darkening of Sinbad’s expression. “Ever since we became a subsidiary of the Kou Triads on his advice, our Family has been doing better than ever! Some of our lower-ranking members have been complaining about reduced pay, of course, but you know how it is with grunts. They’re disposable: if they don’t like it, they can leave or they can take a bullet, it isn’t my problem.”

Judging by the thunderous look on the face of one of Alibaba Saluja’s three bodyguards – the youngest-looking one, the one with the admittedly impressive dreadlocks – _Ahbmad_ was going to be the one taking a bullet one of these days if the fool didn’t get his act together. Even the man’s own guards, whose stoic expressions couldn’t quite hide the scorn in their gazes, would probably be more than willing to help.

Still, any interest Sinbad might’ve felt for the Balbadd Family’s turbulent inner politics was currently being supplanted by his determination to find and murder this so-called _Banker_ before the man could turn Balbadd into yet another weapon of the Kou Triads’.  “I confess I’ve never heard of this ‘Banker’ before. Could you perhaps point him out to me, or is he not in attendance?”

“H-h-he’s by the b-buffet table right n-n-n-now, Uncle S-Sinbad,” Sahbmad informed him, sounding much like a mouse about to be trodden on even as he signaled Sinbad with his eyes that if the Sindria boss decided to get rid of the Banker, Sahbmad would be behind him, like, one hundred percent. No, really. _Two_ hundred percent, even.

Sinbad _knew_ there was a reason he’d always liked Rashid’s second son best.

Standing by the chocolate fountain that sat near the end of one of the long, narrow aged-oak tables covered in scrumptious-looking dishes no-one had been suicidal enough to partake in yet, was a tall, buff man clad in a white suit, the small crown of thorns embroidered in black thread around his jacket’s breast pocket giving away his affiliation.

He was good-looking in a rugged sort of way, though his cruel eyes and, if Sinbad had to nitpick, unfashionable goatee rather detracted from said good looks. He was leisurely sipping on a glass of red wine and appeared completely relaxed, not seeming to be even slightly on edge at a _Mafia ball_ , so his bodyguard had to be really good.

The younger man standing at attention by the Banker’s right side certainly didn’t _look_ it though. Whip-thin and rather short compared to most of the other men in attendance, the man was clad in an ensemble of dove-gray suit, cream-colored shirt and silver tie that fit him like a glove; not a single telltale bulge indicating the presence of a gun or blade was visible on his person, which meant he had to be a user of hidden weapons, because with a frame like that, there was no way he was a master of hand-to-hand.

Whatever his slight body lacked in intimidation factor, however, his face certainly made up for it. Not that the young man was ugly – far from it, actually, with those soft, undeniably _pretty_ features and those adorable freckles – but his _eyes_ …narrow and knife-sharp and steel-colored, bisected by vertical pupils that _really_ didn’t belong on a human being. They were only made to look more frightening by the bangs of his slightly overlong, messy mop of white hair, which slightly obscured them.

The young man – _assassin_ , Sinbad’s instincts practically screamed at him – seemed to sense Sinbad’s scrutiny and shifted on his feet with a measure of unease. For a brief moment, those serpentine eyes left the vulnerable back of their owner’s charge, and roamed over the crowded ballroom before locking with unerring accuracy onto Sinbad’s own—

And the world just—

In the depths of Sinbad’s mind, at the core of his being, a burst of crimson flames suddenly roared to life between the yellow and light blue ones that had already been steadily, peacefully crackling away there for years. And Sinbad could only think, _Oh, fuck_.

Of _course_ he would suddenly find his Storm after more than a _decade_ of feeling their absence like a missing limb. Of _course_ said Storm would turn out to be affiliated with _that_ Organization in some way. And of _course_ , Sinbad would end up irrevocably in debt to the Kou Triads for having hosted the gala at which he had finally achieved Full Harmony.

Not that Sinbad was about to let any of these minor inconveniences stop him from finally claiming _his_ Storm regardless of who and/or what tried to get in his way, but still. Just Sinbad’s luck.

* * *

It was no secret amongst Sinbad’s subordinates that, though it was nothing compared to that of Luce of the Giglio Nero and her daughter Aria, Sinbad had been born with some degree of precognitive ability: therefore, they weren’t surprised when the man suddenly disappeared without explanation, just a scant few weeks after he had announced that he had finally found their missing piece. They were certainly _irritated_ , but not surprised.

And indeed, as they had correctly deduced, Sinbad had managed to find his wayward assassin’s trail and, overcome by excitement at the thought of roping his rightful Storm into the fold of his Family, he had hared off after the man without a second thought.

This, in hindsight, turned out to be a definite mistake.

Trying to ambush a trained assassin was risky. Trying to ambush a trained assassin at night, in said assassin’s own territory, was foolish. Trying to ambush a trained assassin at night, in said assassin’s own territory, when said assassin was still shaking with residual adrenaline after returning from a hit was basically suicide.

Therefore, when Sinbad, who had chosen to sit in a large, cushy armchair just far enough from the small apartment’s windows to remain in the shadows of the moonlit living room – all for the sake of maximum dramatic impact – suddenly announced his presence with a cheerful, “Yo!”, just as the assassin shut the front door behind him and discarded his jacket…well, Sinbad really shouldn’t have been taken aback when the assassin’s first response was to annihilate the intruder in his home. But Sinbad definitely _was_.

Sky Flame users were pretty much royalty in the dark world of the Mafia. They were rare and precious for their stabilizing effects on hardened killers’ minds, not to mention their often superior Flame output when compared to other types; moreover, they simply tended to have the kind of friendly, warm personality that had even the aforementioned hardened killers reluctant to take the lives of such kind and brilliant individuals. Oh, and there was also he fact that murdering a Sky was generally a bad idea because said Sky’s guardians would then find you and murder _you_ in the most excruciating way possible in revenge for their broken Harmony.

And it was even _more_ unheard of for one of said Sky’s guardians _themselves_ , however freshly Harmonized, to be willing to take their own Sky’s life without batting an eye. It was, in fact, supposed to be impossible.

_Well, I do so love to flip the boundaries of the ‘possible’ the bird as I merrily stroll past them_ , Sinbad mused somewhat hysterically as he stared down at the rope dart that would have impaled his throat if he hadn’t twitched his head to the right at the last second, and was now instead embedded hilt-deep into the stone wall behind him. _It only makes sense that my destined right-hand would defy all expectations as well_.

“Who the fuck are you and what do you want,” the assassin said, _demanded_. He was just as lovely as he had been when Sinbad had last seen him, despite having ditched the suit in favor of a nondescript shirt-and-jeans combo. If the assassin had been going for discretion, however, Sinbad could safely say that the man had failed, as most civilians didn’t tend to consider it _normal_ for people to walk around covered in quite so much blood.

With slow, nonthreatening movements, Sinbad reached over to turn on the small lamp sitting on the chest of drawers by his armchair’s side. The assassin let him, though his tense posture belied his increasing impatience as he watched Sinbad with a gimlet eye, his hand hovering over a – Sinbad assumed – hidden sheath at his hip in mute warning.

Gentle golden light flooded the room, and Sinbad took a moment to appreciate the way it made the assassin’s hair glimmer like threads of platinum before he broke the heavy silence between them, addressing the assassin with his best smile. “I’m Sinbad of the Sindria Family, but you already know that, of course. I’m sure your superiors have told you all about me.” The freckled man remained silent, neither confirming nor infirming Sinbad’s assumptions. “And you are no doubt aware of my reason for being here, as well.”

For several long moments, the assassin said nothing, simply allowing his reptilian eyes to roam over every inch of Sinbad’s body. Even though the boss of Sindria knew for a fact that the man was simply scanning him for concealed weapons and/or malicious intent, and _not_ checking him out, he couldn’t help the frisson of heat that licked up his spine: he certainly wouldn’t have minded if the pretty assassin had wanted a closer look at him for less than platonic reasons, too.

Finally, the assassin seemed to deem him safe to approach for the time being, though the man’s desire to simply kick Sinbad out of his apartment without hearing him out was obvious in the way the man clicked his tongue disgruntledly as he tugged at the taut red thread digging into Sinbad’s cheek to retract his blade. Only now did Sinbad notice the similar red thread that was spooled around both of the man’s moon-pale, muscular arms, long enough that it reached all the way up to his toned biceps, where it disappeared into the sleeves of his plain black t-shirt. _Christ_. Clearly this man had been put on Earth just to torture Sinbad’s notorious libido.

“Talk,” the assassin said shortly as he strode into the living room and deposited himself lightly onto the armchair directly opposite Sinbad’s, the motion so void of unnecessary movement as to look downright sinuous. His footsteps hadn’t made a single sound.

Sinbad gave a discreet gulp and jerked his eyes up from the man’s crossed legs and the snug dark wash jeans that encased them. Damn it, but the Harmonization was still so fresh and new, and his Storm so infuriatingly beautiful, that it left the infamously silver-tongued boss of Sindria almost completely off his game, which was definitely not a good thing given how invested Sinbad was in having this first official meeting between them go well enough for him to secure his Storm’s loyalty.

Most bosses would have, perhaps, found themselves offended by the Storm’s unwillingness to treat them with the respect and devotion a Sky was due, and would have cut their losses and decided to look for another, more deferent Element to join their Harmony’s fold. Sinbad, for his part, was certainly a little hurt by his Storm’s obvious dismissal of him, but he was mostly _intrigued_ , and determined to prove himself worthy of the man’s eventual allegiance. Life was just no fun if one was never met with any challenges.

“I want you to leave your masters and become mine instead,” Sinbad said boldly as he lowered his thick eyelashes and adopted an intense stare that had been described by many besotted women as ‘smoldering’. “And I want you to do it now. After all, you rightfully belong to me.”

Unlike Clouds and Mists, who preferred a degree of freedom that most other Flame users weren’t quite as insistent on preserving, Storms liked to feel _owned_ , liked to be certain that their Skies valued them enough to fight for the right to possess them. Though he had, obviously, never Harmonized with any Storms prior to this, Sinbad _had_ bedded enough of them to know what they liked to hear.

Any other Storm, if they had been in the assassin’s place, would have softened to some degree, perhaps even melted on the spot at the sound of Sinbad’s husky words and the sight of his panty-dropping gaze.

Instead, the assassin bristled like Sinbad had just propositioned him in the filthiest way possible – _to be perfectly fair, Sinbad_ may _have had less than pure intentions when he made his proposal_ – and before Sinbad could even blink, he found himself flat on his back, the assassin crouched over him (but regrettably not straddling him) and holding a knife at his throat, glaring down at the stunned boss with those eyes the likes of which Sinbad had never seen on a human before.

Well. Clearly, treating the assassin like all the other Storms Sinbad had seduced in the past wasn’t going to win him points any more than breaking into the man’s apartment had. Sinbad was really messing this up, which was a rather distressing realization because _goddammit_ , this was the _first_ Storm he had ever managed to Harmonize with, and the man was gorgeous and intimidatingly sexy and quite clearly a formidable fighter, and even now that the man held Sinbad’s life in his hands, Sinbad could _feel_ his Sky Flames tugging relentlessly at the assassin’s own tightly restrained ones.

“What’s your name?” Sinbad whispered – very quietly, in an effort to avoid his throat expanding enough to meet with the blade poised above it – because he could be a persistent bastard at the best of times, and this was certainly one of the worst.

The assassin blinked and his pupils expanded somewhat, like he had attacked Sinbad more out of reflex in reaction to the boss’s possessive words than anything else, and he was only now realizing what he had done; then he frowned, looking confused by the fact that Sinbad was bothering to ask such a mundane question instead of begging him to spare his life.

“Ja’far, Chief of Sham Lash,” he said at length. Had Sinbad mentioned that the assassin’s – _Ja’far_ ’s – voice wasn’t very deep, but was soft and throaty and somewhat hoarse, like the rasp of scales over rough stone? Because it _was_ , and Sinbad really hoped that Ja’far didn’t plan on sitting down properly onto Sinbad’s hips anytime soon, because he didn’t think the assassin would appreciate what he would find there if he did.

“You mean of Al-Thamen.”

Ja’far blinked lazily down at him, apparently not having thought that this needed to be spelled out. “We’re a branch of the Organization, yeah. How do you not fucking know this already?”

_Well_. His Storm certainly had a mouth on him. Given that Storms were primarily employed as the Family’s diplomats, that would have to change in the future; Sinbad was sure that Rurumu would be up for the job of reforming Ja’far into a member of what passed, in the Underworld, for polite society, as she had done for Sinbad himself all those years ago.

“That won’t do,” Sinbad said bluntly, because clearly this was a man who didn’t respond well to attempts at deception and flattery. “Al-Thamen is Sindria’s enemy. Once you become mine, you’ll be their enemy as well.”

Ja’far’s whole body gave a single spasm of suppressed aggression, and his eyes darkened once more, even as the blade inched even closer to Sinbad’s throat. They both knew that Sinbad could’ve simply pushed him off several minutes ago and had only remained prone and apparently powerless to soothe the assassin’s frayed nerves after Sinbad’s intrusion and presumption; but now the assassin meant business, if the killing intent he was emitting in waves was any anything to go by. It was even more potent than Drakon’s, which was saying something, because his childhood frenemy was one of the scariest people Sinbad knew whenever something managed to truly piss him off.

The assassin really did _not_ want to be collared, in any way. Spartos was the same, though the Cloud Flame user expressed it in a much more subdued manner, so this wasn’t a situation Sinbad was unused to being confronted with, but all the same…Ja’far truly was like no Storm Sinbad had ever encountered; rare, and free, and fascinating. Sinbad’s desire for him was fated to keep increasing exponentially with each new facet of the assassin’s personality that was revealed, it seemed.

“I may be a member of Al-Thamen,” Ja’far murmured, very clearly and very quietly and very threateningly, “but I have my own will. _If_ I ever join your merry band of fuckwits, it’ll be because I wished to, and not because you sweet-talked me into it with that disgusting fake smile on your stupid face. There are other Skies in the world who could be more suitable for me than you are. You got that?”

Sinbad did _not_ appreciate the insult to his Family, or the insinuation that Ja’far would not mind breaking his bond to Sinbad in favor of someone else, in the least, but given that Ja’far appeared to be at least considering becoming a part of the aforementioned Family, he held his tongue. Ja’far seemed to notice the shift in his mood, however, and to appreciate it, because he actually _smiled_ down at Sinbad, the expression was sharp and menacing and ridiculously arousing.

“I’m not particularly attached to the Organization, and even less so to the psychotic bitch that leads it. But I won’t be going anywhere—“ Ja’far grinned at Sinbad, his sharp little teeth flashing in the dim light, and loosened his grip on his Flames just enough that they flared out to brush against Sinbad’s. “—until you convince me that _you’re_ the fucking better option.”

Dazed by the vibrantly warm feel of the Storm his Flames had chosen for him, Sinbad could only nod dumbly, and he barely held in a whine of protest when Ja’far smoothly rose from his crouch and stepped away from Sinbad, sheathing his dagger as he went. The assassin looked around at his apartment with a mildly irritated countenance, his brows furrowing when his eyes landed on the hole one of his darts had left in the wall, but he contented himself with a brief, annoyed sigh as he stalked over to the couch a few paces away.

There, he removed one of the sofa’s cushions to reveal a hidden compartment in its wooden frame, from which he extracted a pair of duffle bags—

And the fog started to clear from Sinbad’s mind as he realized what the assassin was up to. But Ja’far had played his cards well, timing his _very_ delayed reciprocation to Sinbad’s Flames’ tugging in such a way as to leave Sinbad incapacitated for a little while yet; and Ja’far knew it, too, if the mischievous smirk he threw at Sinbad as he prowled towards the living room’s sole window was any indication.

“Ja’far…” was the only protest Sinbad could make, slurring and sounding pretty much drunk out of his mind, when the assassin opened said window with precise, efficient motions and hefted himself up onto the windowsill.

Obligingly, Ja’far turned to look at Sinbad over his shoulder, and Sinbad was mesmerized by the sight of him – of his snow-pale skin that looked nearly blue under the moonlight that caressed his cheek and swanlike neck like a lover, of his hair that shimmered the same color as the moon above, of his dark eyes that glinted like a predator’s. He was still liberally splattered with dried blood.

“Catch me if you can, Sinbad.”

Several minutes later, when Sinbad finally regained enough coherency and freedom of movement to sit up, putting most of his weight onto his elbows as the room spun dizzily around him, he was still staring at the ledge his Storm had gracefully leapt down from while Sinbad was powerless to stop him. And the boss of Sindria was trembling all over, his breaths deep and shaky, as he tried desperately to control his helpless arousal.

Oh, Sinbad was going to catch Ja’far, alright. That cheeky minx of an assassin wouldn’t know what hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a cliché ending. But oh well! I had a sort of Batman-and-Catwoman feel in mind when I wrote this, with lots and lots of UST; though, actually, for this Ja’far, I was aiming for more of a mix of his bandaged-up canon childhood self, and the Natasha Romanoff from that awful Avengers movie. (I hated it, sorry. Don’t fight me on this.)  
> (Also, if you were wondering, Hinahoho is Sinbad’s Lightning, Masrur is his Sun, Pisti is his Mist, Sharrkan is his Rain and Spartos is his Cloud. Yamuraiha is part of the Family but not one of his Guardians (AKA Household haha I’m not funny am I), and Drakon is the Outside Advisor.)
> 
> Many of the concepts regarding Skies and Harmonization and such come from Araceil and reighost’s fics, because pretty much every KHR crossover writer seems to have accepted them as canon by now. I am one of them. So yeah, all that stuff ain’t mine.


End file.
